Huddled Cattle - Poem

I finally finished this for the Weekly Contest! It took a while on my part but I think it turned out pretty okay despite the time, and I hope you enjoy it too when you read it. Please note that I used a dictionary for some words and I made it like a practice poem for my language class to improve upon my speech. Since this is practice I might've mixed up some large words and if you're good at language then you might notice. And if you don't know some words then I'm open to you commenting for the definitions.

#WeeklyContest21

I wrote this whole poem with an intention to add meaning. However, it might not seem like it, but if you were to read closely then you might notice some tid bits in which you can hopefully use like puzzle pieces to a bigger idea.

The very tick-tocks of the monotonous morning clock,

Casting its circadian ringing across the industrious block,

Calling pedestrians to start springing onto the streets as a flock.

Some pioneering towards the bustling corner coffee shop,

Grabbing a blistering coffee in a dehiscent hand with a stop,

And hastily snatching a flimsy newspaper from the iron top.

Looking over the planate paper with a once serene look,

Then all sequentially piping up indubitably shook,

Hearing the untrodden news of the contiguous and sneaky crook.

"He has breezed back anew for more carnage and crime!"

"We must ensconce since he wishes to again begrime!"

"This demonic and inexorable crook shall pay soon in time!"

Little did the city people know that the obdurately murdering being,

Was constantly and forever meticulously seeing

And was now contriving, anticipating, and foreseeing.

His clandestine black wings stretched open and quite far,

Showing his tabular plus grim face and broad neck scar,

As well as his caliginous eyes that seemed to each have a dimmed star.

He watched from an arenaceous window with his eyes low,

Ears open to take in the priceless and riveting show which was below,

Mouth twisted in a sadistic grin while seeing people sough.

Behind his halcyon form was his lair, a tenebrous room,

Which reeked of fallacious doings and ill-scented fume,

And looked the sights of a long jilted storeroom.

The room was aphonic and quite massive yet small,

With plenty of viscid webs and dust that seemed to languidly fall,

Everything feculent and a mess, walls and all.

And in one of the corners was a reiterative drip-drop,

So reticent and laying unheard, never about to stop,

And seemingly immaculate yet could make your head pop.

But if you were to swivel up and abroad from the drips,

You would descry bodybags covered in stygian blood like strips,

A sight that would make your heart perform copious skips.

Each immense, bulky bag was quite white and clear,

Every auxiliary item in the room seemingly looking so mere,

The very definition of your very own rationale fear.

Each personage was his victim killed in vain,

Having abided bleeding out with a knife wound with aught to gain,

And every bodybag ending up covered in a somber blood stain.

Each being having a story of their own to tell,

But no longer extant and now sealed in their own piddling shell,

Having been slaughtered in cold blood and quell.

The winged man sat at the windowsill with a scant grin,

Realizing that he has committed a leviathan sin,

And cognizant that he will, at the end of it all, come to win.

The people below continued to holler and infuriately cry,

Each coming to discern that they might soon, to the man, die,

All, to him, looking like trifling birds that can't fly to the cerulean sky.

I hope you liked it! As I possibly stated up there, I worked quite hard on it so I hope you notice that, and if you're wondering how it is a poem, here's the pattern. I separated it into stanzas. Each first three lines of a stanza has a rhyme word at the end of every line and the next three lines have a different one, resulting in six lines in each stanza. Each grouping of words therefore has two rhyme words. For example, the first three lines of a grouping might use the words clock, block, and rock while the next three lines might use walk, talk, and chalk. Do you get it?

And if you might be wondering about what's mythical about this poem then the murderer is what's mythical. He's a man with black wings, almost like a harpy, but without a beak, bird feet, or feathers on his skin.