Distressed to kill.

Smiling at some secret success,
with wicked wear and wicked ways,
aristocrat striding above the masses,
turns a corner but his presence stays.
Confident in the shop-glass mirror,
who's watching now he wonders,
and turns this way and that before,
continuing his journey he saunters.
Arrogant he bestows his hello's,
put-downs slip from his tongue,
the world his oystered stage,
with never a conception of wrong
Dashing, through lives barely noticed,
yet twisting to fit his ideal,
leaving tearful affectees behind him,
too absorbed to notice or feel.

In splendid isolation he wanders,
and yet wonders why his soul is un-mated,
then settles any stirrings to the future,
until all his lustings are sated

Mark Broomhall, July 2003