the ostracism of a sweaty-toothed madman

Across the room hung a portrait

of a convicted madman.
The wrinkles in his face
were like road maps leading to
his hard-fixed, swollen eyes.
If you stare into those midnight stars
you will see memories
like those similar to your own;
Baptism; Graduation; Marriage
-- engorged, full of pastoral pride.
Yet, lest you forget,
this man is crazed by demons
-- he was convicted so.

Round and round and round again
he chased around the campfire,
A small girl, a vibrant spirit,
His own daughter I am told.
He catches her and holds her fast
and takes her into the shadows
of the night-drenched wood.
Parties bearing torches
run rampant after,
desperately searching
for a quiet soul.
But when at long-last they do
come across her,
they find only a lifeless body,
the vessel for her soul to reside,
barren and still.

While stiffening slowly,
the scent of her father fails
miserably in the deathly cold.
And the dogs howled
with blood on their tongues
as the just men stood strong
hiding their own truths in the quiet.