Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Murderer's instinct

The first time your eyes were wide
A knife, into your victim’s side
He gasps, wheezes and splutters
And he falls, closing the soul’s shutters.
It was anger, you think, and revenge.
Your father’s death you wanted to avenge.
Cherry-red blood drips from your hands
A stained story you just can’t bend
A death, in the memory of a dead man
Hurrying out, blood soaks into the land
Sacrificial as a lamb on the altar
A satisfied feeling is what you were after.
A period to a life, a full stop to a comma
Unable to answer, say only “Sorta.”
A murderer’s instinct takes over your mind
You just can’t leave your killing behind
Eyes go wide, adrenaline pumps
A chopper cuts his body into bloody lumps
Stuff it in the freezer, wash the floor,
Rub your hands with soap and go out the door
Stare at freedom, taste it so sweet
The blood on your shirt will stain the white fleet
A record runs, the ballad of a dove
Sweet, sad, and feeling as love
But your heart is empty, and you sit crying.
For attention, everything is vying.
A voice nags at you at the back of your head.
Your father, it says. I’m back from the dead.
I’m coming to get you even when you run
I’ll let you live just for some fun.
I’m no longer in the body in the freezer
You shouldn’t struggle, it won’t be easier.
Your body is not your own, your mind is wild
A paddling pool, a warning seemingly mild
Blood bubbles from hose and soaks to the ground
Stumble back and trip over a mound
Pick yourself up and run to the gate
But jealous grass snags at your fate
Weeds and vines drag you back
For some wild reason they go slack
Your house transforms to a horrible face
It’s door, a mouth with teeth like a mace
It’s windows, eyes that shriek their rage
Incoherent thoughts fly around the page
Your house swallows you, a murderer’s instinct,
All that’s left is now spirits, extinct,
Your father caresses your face tender
And in fear, you feel your throat whimper
Nothing’s going to stop me now.
To fate and justice this act won’t bow.
A murderer’s instinct, it runs in the family
Licking up blood peacefully, happily.
A father and daughter lie dead on the floor
Final destination number four.

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