Stalker

Who am I ?
I was man
Before woman
Now sphinx
Tomorrow death.
Not enough time for these osteopathic ashes to compost that I am posed to be reborn infant and play with you another time, Spouse.
'My runner daughter hides knives under her shirt. For safety. My uncle in the army taught her how to use the blade with deadly effect. She is 11. '
An extract from the morning paper and I cry because I am sentimental and idiotic. Stoned by jasmines and memories of mother. The stone well in the garden echoes the wail of females which is in potential, which did not REALLY happen.

Nevertheless the bereaver granny camouflaged in a veil as dark as abyss ghosts me. On the opposite, my fear of dying depicts my mother forever younger than me in flowery dresses - blue and red I see her now, before masterpieces I am destined to write and poems sober.
I am buying myself some time. None wails and my daughter doesn't fear the stalker, the son of man begotten by Beelzebu's rib.

And I tell her to console – Man is your friend, an amicable companion, a servitude easily to entangle with romance and rosy pigments, a cooing peacock afraid of sturdy matrons in the desolated taverns, on the way to the mountains, where runners go.

And please conceive how men are dangerous only when they move in numbers like in wars.