Once again, a Son of Man fled in terror, proving to me they are pathetic
everytime i showed my form, their courage vanished with the wind
is this the descendant of Adam whom my ancestors have been ordered to revere?
one whose heart is easily misled and troubled by a nudge of fear?

Where is the proof that they are better than the Devil?! Where?!!
So many I have tested and yet none proved the proclaimed truth
once I instigate the growth of doubt, the faith in their hearts falter
making me proud to be a djinn, a superior race born of fire

THE “EL”[a memory]

Clickety-clack
trains on the track
flying high to the city
and back
sparks falling from the sky
on the street below
where phantom trolleys go
on rails left behind.

Clickety-clack
sardines in a row
swaying to and fro
white knuckle holds
on worn leather straps
holding on to mamma
for dear life
old men smoking cigars
and pipes
Christmas time
just mamma and I
on the El we fly....

weary worn
the R&R is tearing at our souls
like the slash of the tough grass
Not enough bourbon on the nights
crawl....The MP's drawl..

The once sweet rasp of my Zippo
from a girl..is like a rash in the ear
bitter-sweet sucked in on a Pall
Mall...my left hand on the webbing
sling atop the metal and plastic
Mattel

We know what to do
the names missing
the new replaced
like an old chain with
new links

Here, the drama unfolds on a stage
where the judge, the panels of juries,
the lawyers and the accused
are actors, seen and heard
to deliver justice as they see fit
in accordance to the law

Voices have been raised to attract attention
the battles are fought with wits, words and actions
bold lawyers trying to put their points across
with the display of evidence and clever talks
laying entrapments in questions
hoping to appeal to the judges' and juries' favour

It is sickening to be sick again,
Pain turning life insane.
The gains feeling thirty once more
Lasts but a mayfly's gaze.

Penning stories of murder, horror
Thrills and soars the power
To feed the latent talent
With flowers that cover defeat.

Tomorrow is another day
Tonight is there to view.
The flowers' power refreshes the soul,
My youthful thirties bloom.

As the fire from Macwill hotel spreads,
shouts and screams filled the air
the people of London strived to save the city,
while he enters John Creel's hotel to confront his enemy.

Armed with a knife, John Creel moved with great speed
Macwill saw the man's eyes turned red but he felt no fear
even when his wounds started to bleed aplenty
he died and Mog left John Creel's body.

NOTE: Before you begin reading, I need you to put yourself inside the mind of Anabel. Imagine the unremorseful, sing song voice of a killer who is telling their story, reliving their crimes as if it were yesterday and getting pleasure from it. Imagine the twisted smile, the psychotic laugh. Note that this is written in the third person, even though he/she is telling the story. Keep in mind that Anabel is a psychopath, so she is not speaking in perfect structure or form.

wrong
or
right
desire prevails
in facts
at night
lusting
love
acceptance
equality
growth
---oOo---
capable us
terrible us
sociopathic
narcissistic
twisting
judging
presiding
apart
---oOo---
lines of truth
move
subjectively
under
desires duress

Where untold stories breathe within
the fractured faults of rumbling walls;
where muted spirits mime
an Opera of yore;
sculpted along the rocky terrain
of the venerated edifice
crumbling in sunshine, rain and hail
more alive than dead.