Portrait

It's canonical, the way things happen.
An elusive hermit always finds his way
into the minds and hearts of the angry mob.

They descend, the pariah is torn limb from limb.
It isn't nature that makes me a killer
but my wrath is nothing short of organic.

My eyes, embers smoldering behind the veil.
They say that the times make the man
but this man has decided to make the Times.

Love me, I am the monster that you crave.
Exploits of a terminal timbre spill over the tile
and on to the pages of my disposition.

There is no end to me, but end you I shall.