A mischievous word,
spoken with intent.
A smile to hide,
the coming event.
A chosen lie,
to misrepresent.
A well made plan,
no one can prevent.

That night he knows,
his plan it flows.
The wind she blows,
and the streets froze.
Reciting his prose,
his purpose does impose.
Redundant to appose,
his intent arose.
The words do suppose,
commanding echoes.

No one could predict,
that night he came.
An evening unremarkable,
it seemed the same.
No sign before,
of his mischievous game.
Suddenly he appeared,
his eyes aflame.
Unrecognized by most,
what was his name?
As his words took form,
the people he did tame.
Their souls opened,
his to claim.

12/21/2010