On Enemy

He nurses a bruised ego and dwells in battered pride under the veil of darkness and confronts with a wily smile. Holding the sword of barbarism with its hilt rooted in the feeling of resentment, edges honed with revenge, coated in the venom of hatred and tipped with ferocity, he stares in the eye. Waiting to strike at an opportune moment and slit you apart. Walk not before him, in faltering footsteps.