PREDATOR

These dreams,
shackled to the truth,
won't free me for an instant,
this sleep a savage
rerun of the night before,
who am I,
what have I done,
what has he done,
the demon given bloody reign
on tortured streets,
his eyes afire,
his hands addicted to
the knife,
the cruelty a double dose
for roping me
into his grim identity,
switching on these stereos
that plague my head
with unholy voices
that cry the song
that names me "predator"
so I won't feel like
the victim I know
myself to be.

—John Grey

Another online poem by John Grey
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Crossroads magazine,
by clicking here

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All rights to this poem belong to its author.

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