Something a little different. I guess that my imagination has been inflicted with all the evil men in the world. Their lack of compassion and feelings toward other people. Their unpredictable responses to people who they do not agree with. Their brazen attitudes and contempt toward the rule of law and humanity.
The Unrepentant Confession
I met a drunk, who spoke of awful things,
that he had done,
Broken laws in many states, evaded justice,
still on the run.
He spoke of crimes in reckless tones,
explicit in detail,
And bragged how he outwitted men who sought
to put him in jail.
He portrayed his victims as mere objects,
void of worth or name,
How he stalked them through the streets as
though it were a game.
He left them broken where they fell, then
vanished out of town,
And while he kept on drifting, they had never
tracked him down.
The tavern lights burned dim and low, the
hour growing late,
While shadows gathered near our booth like
something close to fate.
The laughter from the other folk grew
distant, faint, and thin,
As though the world beyond our space no
longer dared step in.
He smiled at moments ill-suited, then fell
deathly still a-gin,
As though old memories stirred, somewhere,
far beneath his skin.
I watched the twitching of his jaw, the
tightening of his hands,
And spoke to calm the rampant fire, that no
man understands.
For something dark behind his eyes seemed
restless, cold, and strange,
And every careful question asked appeared to
make him change.
I felt the stiffness in my spine each time he
leaned in near,
While every word he softly spoke seemed
sharpened now by fear.
I asked him why recount such tales so sordid
and obscene,
And what he thought that he would gain now,
in coming clean.
He said he’d turned another page, and left
the past behind,
That he had called upon the Lord and now
possessed peace of mind.
He claimed, God had washed his sins and freed
him from his shame,
And said retracing steps once more would
serve no useful gain.
“No point,” he said, “in dredging up what’s
buried deep and gone,
The Lord forgives the truly saved, and life
must still go on.”
The tavern keeper glanced our way, then
quickly looked aside,
As though he sensed that something foul
beneath the surface lied.
The room grew quieter still, as if the night
itself had drawn
Its breath closed in, around our table,
waiting for the dawn.
I thought about the cold case files left
gathering dust for years,
The sleepless nights endured still by the
victims’ kin through tears.
The empty chairs, the unanswered prayers, the
grief that never ends,
While he sought comfort for himself beneath
religion’s lens.
He leaned in close; the stale drink upon his
breath, hard to bear,
And for a fleeting moment then, I feared what
lingered there.
His eyes grew fixed, and vacant-like, then
sharpened suddenly,
As though he searched my face to learn what I
believed to see.
I thought to rise and end the talk, escape
into the night,
Yet something deep within me warned retreat may
not be right.
So, I carefully chose my words, and kept my
movements small,
For men who carry buried rage may snap
without recall.
He laughed at things no soul should laugh
remembering the dead,
Then drifted into silence with both trembling
hands outspread.
And once he softly named a town where no one
knew his face,
Then smiled and said, “Some folks just vanish,
without a trace.”
The wind outside began to press against the
window frame,
As though it too had heard enough to know the
man’s true name.
And still I felt unable to depart or break
away,
As if the air itself refused to let me rise
and stray.
At last, he rose unsteadily and staggered out
into the night,
He didn’t look back, his nefarious form
swallowed out of sight.
Though I had seen no sorrow live, no anguish,
fear, nor dread,
I had indeed, seen all the ghosts, of all the
victims in his head.
Written
By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2026)
