"The Strangers"

Constantly trying to explain myself
While I cry, love, cast shadows and
give them names we've all heard before
The stranger smirks between gazes
into the eyes of the unknown,
quick on the draw, but too quickly drawn
In a rush to realize an archetype
from my devolution
The stranger's heart, encrusted in
ancient fires, paints embers
across its slave's eyeline
A ghost of a man who slew
himself decades ago, tamed by a shrew
The stranger cries like a sheep
whose wolf clothing is snowy white
camoflauged by the snowy white sheep
Another dead man awakened
then awakened again
How many times can he wake,
can he shake
off his names across sore eyes
He counts down while his
Strangers multiply in strength