Stare

I’d thought I’d seen
A kindness in her eyes

Upon reflection,
It was never there

I had projected love onto her,
Through my arduous staring;
It was not love she felt, but mirth

The kind of infantile glee
That a child feels upon
Breaking another child’s toy

The hateful smile born of one
Incapable of caring
For anyone or anything

There is a type of impish delight
That a recidivistic child will not surrender,
Even upon the pain of death

A wanton emotional sadism
Is the closest thing
That a void can ever hope to call
Fulfillment

Some spirits are only vacant motel rooms,
Unable to accept any guests,
Because they are filled to capacity
With fear

Staring incredulously at
Love’s credit card, and
Insisting upon fifth and sixth
Forms of identification

The only entertainment they enjoy
Is the sneering, bitter amusement
Of watching others
Fall upon their swords

For a vampire,
Every calorie is an empty calorie

Every kill is
Nothing but a sour reminder
Of the eternal need
For more killing

©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Author: Kevin Trent Boswell

Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary evidence suggests the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.

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