Found only in the fires of hell
For deeds both known and not yet known
Cursed and evil prone,
Thrust in fire’s spell—
Blessed in such a way is he.

As death approaches the walker
He finds friendship in a stranger’s embrace
Never pausing in panic’s place,
For terror is the fuel of the shadow-stalker,
Out in the streets of night, stealthy as they flee.

Police asleep in the past, on the edge of shadows,
Banned from home, he wanders through the misty sheets
Stained red by the neon lights of Manhattan streets.