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Serial KillerHandling knives with utmost care,
The smell of death lingering in the air,
Blood splattered on everything I wear.
Motive or disease;
A quick kill just doesn't please.
The loud tortured screams,
Tears flowing in streams.
I cause quite a scare,
Limbs of my victims strewn here and there.
They scream that I'm going to Hell,
But oh, very well.
It's better than this society that fell.
I always get away,
In this game that I play,
I love to kill every night and day.
And I will not cry
Over the day I will die,
Because death and I aren't very shy.
I'll kill to my demise,
And I will say no goodbyes,
For it's in the ground where all my friends lie.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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