poetry

The Mercenary

He strikes
In the darkness.
Lays waste
In the dead of night.
He pounces
Upon blanketed toes.
Tips the lamp
Upon the nightstand.
Launches himself
Atop the clothes rack.
He is a
Guerilla food fighter,
Hitting fast
And hard
And disappearing again
Before you can catch him.
He has
But one mission.
To make you realize
You exist
Only to feed him.
Anytime.
Anywhere.

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