Figoro

There's a devil that watches me from his window. Up on that hill he lives on. In that big, dark house, in that darkened atmosphere that clouds his heart. There is nothing sincere about this man, only blackness that drips like oil from his pulsating, gashed veins.

Every night a new I.V. drip of poison is pumped into his body as he smokes his wooden pipe stuffed with innocence and love.

He feeds off peoples fears and rips anything remotely personal from their necks showering him with any sort of endurance or patience that victim had left.

Even when he's not around, I still feel him slithering through the shadows. Waiting for the beauty, the honest, the young to stray from their collected groups so he can hit while the iron is hot.

I have no respect for this devil, this incarnate of weak power, this self conscious Satan with limp wrists, and a sharp nose that sniffs out fresh meat.