The Fox
Incursive on the frozen snow, Wary blaze in vulpine eyes, Islanded in solitude, The fox in moonlight on the rise Kept his stance as I my own, Chaos in him as in me, Shut in the inviolate Aorta, stinging icily.
Malice in him; yet he knew I too with infected will Had set my trap, a stratagem As secretive as his own skill; The semblance of his evil, mine; Mine as his; when in the numb Absolute of silence, he Disappeared as he had come.