faceless entity
by lost frequencies.
.*.*.*.
Dark saviour overshadows bloodied faces of the guilty, their broken bodies lay still in vain and in shame.
They brought it upon themselves, as he would agree in grim silence. They shaped the city, the world—this way.
This way.
The impending bleakness.
Remorselessness.
How he's been driven to avenge the inflicted and be freed of hesitation.
There is no grey in between the swirling, symmetrical dark blotches over his plain fabric visage. His true face shows no glorified compassion, no kindness, no compromise.
Only black, or white.
Refusing to see anything else, he cleans after society. Yet no one seems appreciative of his efforts. But does he care?
No.
Personal reasons, he would say. A promise made between him (and God).
He keeps a journal to record every worthy deed, every suppressed thought and on better days, although scarce as children's laughter, a hint of hopeful longing in a world preoccupied with monetary gain, overindulgence and lust of the flesh.
He saunters in the cold hard rain for a spiritual cleanse, welcoming the downpour as it washes away the grime and debris off his battered, blood-drenched trench coat.
Bypassing the human cockroaches that have long plagued the streets, he falls deep in thought beneath the shelter of his fedora.
As he looks up, startled gasps from civilians whisper past his ears. They fear his face, his silent demeanour.
In their eyes, he is nothing but a faceless entity; a force to be reckoned with.
They know. They all know, as they let the pondering vigilante walk by, still silent as ever.
Lethally peaceful.
But don't they realise? He only wants to make this world a better place.
For himself, a rewarding afterlife.