Lights dim, apocalypse calls, lying mask
is driven again to the man, still, standing
in darkness, waiting. Words but shoulder, demanding
attention, scraping skin on his roughest task --
a set of cards almost, scattered, a flask
of confidences cracked, facts, hopes disbanding,
useful fears, hates, together, no landing
unless unquestioned, lies, none daring to ask.
He acts: shoulders back, flesh as his hide,
antagonists await, claws now clipped, with teeth
so nothing escapes, hears the tapes inside;
he acts. Around his face the shadows feast,
the warhorse calls, intro closing, grief,
anger, both acts, slouching forwards, blond beast.