He stands under the flickering street lamp
A suit of black silk and suede

Glinting a brooding red from corner to corner

A sharp smirk leans against a cane of bone and obsidian

His eyes, white with a blooded crack, clever, wait behind a striking brim

Any poisoned by his frigid, barren eyes feel familiar

Lightning bouncing in a glass cage

Winter abiding within a dank prison

Stone in the soul of a shoe

A thing of incredulous stature captivates every hand

His cane bruises every bone

The whisper of stoic lips

Earnest shade of every choice

He is seen by all but never looked at

The smell of discomfort

He walks with the wind, but stands unabiding

Unborn, all to natural

Mr. Nightmare