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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.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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