Prowling With The Monster

I'm prowling with The Monster
To make my large sounds small.
With footsteps barely heard,
No prey can know our presence.
Every Midnight shocks me
Although each night's the same.
I own my poet's toolbox;
My letters form old stories.
But verses, oh, my verses,
They love the Monster's tale
As flies surround each stanza
To ponder on my motives.
I can't give up an answer,
But answers often dodge
The questions that come easy:
Like "How?" and "why?" and "when?"
Rough estimates for each
Arrive while we escape.
I bludgeon out the poems:
Each line is hammered fingers;
The Monster shows me how.
My words crave years to heal,
But pain arrives each day;
The Monster shows me why.
So chances are, we're prowling
With answers in our knives;
The Monster shows me when.
A midnight in disguise
Hides prowlers in the sounds
Made sweet though plainly sour
With hope that's plainly false
For ears quite plainly deaf
By me, quite plainly mute.
A Monster no one knows
Stays in pursuit of silence.