Inside the Tuxedo

He is maintaining
With admirable consistency,
Shrouding himself
In mundane, innocuous mystery
But he grows antsy in clutch,
And I feel the potential energy
Revving inside the engine,
While disconnected from activity
Aside from covert strafing
From sideways positions
Keeping up appearances
Avoiding transitions
That could further expose
His bloodlust, but his hatred grows
And where this ends

Neither of us knows.