He comes in cloaks of sweeping darkness,
just when and where we cannot know,
a friendless face, plaintive aside,
unseeing eyes and lips unsmiled.
But I digress…
He reckons the skill will maim or kill.
He reckons he knows to avoid the throes.
He reckons and calculates, measures and frowns.
Silent charades, we most ruefully hand over:
beauty and incubus both.
He pimps up the memories with medals or stories.
He offers horizons and vistas long spent.
Abhor him! Fall not for his honeyed deception!
The mould is still soft, all possibilities there,
you can deflect those pinpricks, each perfect phrase dissecting.
You know he’s not playing fair.
when all that remains
is cracked shell
and waste.
findingtimetowrite 
loving ‘beauty and incubus both’ … oh!