Be Careful, the Walkin'-Man Walks

This poem was my first time delving into the macabre.

Alright, alright, alright, yes, I am alright!
He is a wandering spirit without any sight,
a cursed soul with no heart to spare. 
It's not fair? Who cares? Limbo is not supposed to be fair.

Life is fair. You have no idea what you're talking about.
Despicable, taking it for granted without doubt.
You know what I say? “Kill 'em with kindness, 
leave 'em beggin' for blindness!”

That's the plan, Stan! 
That's the plan of the Walkin'-Man!
He sees through meaty flesh, past bones, and past spirit.
Don't do it, don't fear it! 

He's gonna cut real good,
gonna pop the trunk, and then pop your hood.
Climb in; climb in, into the pit of sin.
It'll never end. You'll never be able to begin again.

Infernal inferno, fires smelling of sulfur and brimstone,
screeching within a wail in a moan.
What of the tone? It is full of sin and cracking bone.
So damned be you, and damned be the tone!

'Cause that's the plan,
oh, yes, that's the plan of the Walkin'-Man.
Pieces of gold, take a hold.
Take a powerful hold; they're bound to your very soul.

A soul bond, a soul transfer,
that's the only answer!
To get what ya want and to get what ya need,
your mind must have a malicious seed,

a seed to take root, growing into the Damnation Tree.
The tree will bear fruit. You coward, do not flee.
A tree of hate, a tree of mean
bears a fruit which will produce a chaotic scene.

Why don't you take a seat?
Right over there is the line where chaos and peace meet.
The Man won't mind, take the director's chair.
If he notices, he won't care.

The fruit is the producer.
Be the fool to sue her.
Grab this wench of a screenplay by ‘er breasts and seducer 'er, 
yank out 'er entrails and gut 'er.

This movie will be a hit! The box office will sail!
Yes, my friend, she will not fail.
Oh, what a glorious tale we shall have to regale!
She dares not speak, lest you become the first nail.

You would be the first nail binding her to her unholy cross.
After she's gone, you would cover her in moss.
Don’t question that, the plan.
That's the plan of the Walkin'-Man.

He is the director, plus the writer,
multiply the sum by the infernal sulfur and brimstone fire.
He is the screech in the wail of a moan,
the damnation setting the morbid tone.

He is not the Alpha,
nor is he the Omega.
He is Beta and Psi,
Gamma to Chi.

                     
He is the infinite, never-ending middle, a first but never a last.
That is just the start of the plan he has amassed.
Like the middle, his plan sounds on the blast.
Say all that three times fast.

He is in anyone and in anything,
priding himself on knowing everything, yet absolutely nothing,
regarding his own existence with plentiful or minimal disdain.
Eyes crackling with a black, purple flame,

he is many things, a concept brought into reality by sheer force of will.
He is the end of all sin. Am I to assume you pay no heed to this cryptic swill?
Between you and me, he is power, greed, and lust.
He is he and he is she, granted immortality. Gaze upon her ample bust.

I should know, for I am the Man.
You should too, my dear, for you are also the Man.
'Cause that's mine and your plan
for the foulest of sins, the plan of the Walkin'-Man.

Reviews

[just is]

I really enjoyed this write, love the rhyme scheme.

[Pritesh]

I like the way you write! brilliant.