He leaves the landscape behind him littered with our broken hearts. We, simply the baggage he casts onto the wayside as he makes his journey.  He has no conscience to stop his rampage through our lives.  One after another, taking what he wants for the time he wishes mindless of the pain and suffering he leaves in his wake.  Once finished he never looks back.  He views this as strength, to us cruelty, malevolence.  Is there no consequence for one living without heart, without soul?

He is not what he represents himself to be, not even true to himself.  None could find it possible to live with the reality of such deeds.  So, he must always be moving on, seeking the next conquest to validate him for just awhile.  He is the consummate actor.  His characters crafted in remarkable relief.  Somehow the construct provides precisely what each most desires, most searches after, most longs for, most needs.   Is there no penalty for one living on lies, never embracing truth’s way?

No fools, we his fodder, amazing people all.  No placid paramour would he tarry with, no common companion for him.  He feeds on our vitality, drinks from the well of our creativity, suckles on our verve.  Encounters brief by necessity. Astute women never deceived long.  He must depart before the discovery of his deceit.  His satisfaction incomplete without the torment of an ending before its time and the rending of hope.  Is there no price to be paid for one living off the vivacity of others? 

His pride, his vanity, his arrogance nourished at our expense.  We accustom to being sought after are no match for his guile.  Never would any of us imagine we could be taken in so.  Yet that is the draw for him.  Not one for the easy victory.  Insidiously, his pleasure increased by the depth of the challenge.  Never is he one to settle for the low-hanging fruit.  His aspiration to attain those others could only dream to hold.  Is there no retribution for one so infatuated with his own machinations? 

Once I thought of myself as such a prize.  In the presence of my peers, never has my conceit been depreciated.  In the presence of his discards, for the first time I feel diminutive.  Those disposed of before me humble me with their abilities, aptitude, and acumen.  There is a strange honor in being chosen for his chicanery, not for the wonder of him, rather for this prodigious company in which I now discover myself.  Is there no detriment for one whose soul must carry such Karmic debt? 

There will be a comeuppance someday.  There will come a point when all of his wiles, his charm, his flirtations will no longer support him.  All those he left behind will loom up to haunt him.  Age is a mistress he will never seduce.  His time is coming when he will encounter the life he has created and he will feel all that he has inflicted on others.  There will be a day when the loneliness will find him and there will be none to help him hold it at bay.  Soon, very soon, there will be repayment due.