Killer In The Midst

In the beginning

Careful now, behind the door

Lurks the one with wicked core

For now, the breath held in my breast

It yearns to leave, and come to rest

But if it does, I'll be no more

His hands are quick, and I am stayed

For on me, his cold eyes have played

And now, his hands are moved and cocked

My body grabbed, then held and locked

My composure gone, my chest now caved

Scream for me, for I cannot

The cord around my neck in knot

It holds me there in death array

Lest I have chance to slip away

I feel it now, my blood when clot

My life, no longer felt in presence

I cannot cling to conscious essence,

I feel my own self cannot stay

I soar toward coal, and then away

Now held, I am in reverence

Many mourn, but spit at he

Who without thought, did torture me

And now I'm lowered to the ground,

While those grieving, stand around

And pray my soul, is at last free

Alas, the evidence so secure

Left the killer to seem pure

Now gone from eye, and life today

Free to stalk innocent prey

But who, right now be in his lure?

I find myself, reach out to them

With empty hand, I cannot attend

And of me, there is not a fray

Of mortality, in this fine way

What once was, now has been

I find him, deep in solitude

With nervous eye, and anxious mood

I marvel at the man, who once

Took away my soul; still hunts

Innocent victims for his brood

Then call to him, without my breath

With words so icy; full of death

His face contorted in mortal terror

Though all for not, he made no error

When ripped my soul, no mercy left

Into his mind, I do descend

To quell the hatred, to the end

And seek revenge on the man, who did

Take away my life, amid

Now he, to rightful place I send.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

First drafted on a Pentium I bought in 1994, the original first six stanzas or so were lost when the computer crashed at two a.m.  By four a.m., frustrated and tired, I had finally called "enough," resulting in the above poem.  Written late October, 1998; 12 years old.  This poem, while reflecting my age, and despite my frustration, was likely the reason I ever took up writing.  It was fun; I was hooked.

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Marilyn Adams's picture

WOW! I couldn't believe the words written down before me. It was extremely wonderful. The play of words and how they expressed so much with only saying a little was fascinating. Very good work! Kepp it up!