Murder

Murder

There is a poetry to murder:
That cannot be denied;
A lyricism to malevolence
That approaches the sublime.

There is a meter
To the flutter
Of a slowly dying heart-

An unearthly syncopation,
Beyond replication,
That echoes quietly
In the corridors
Of each dying mind's head...

It screams from diseased bodies
Of whores on every street;
Sighs from broken hopes
Of vagrants as they are beaten;
Born in the region of total mortal dread
It cries from the plane of misery
Of dreams that can never be;
Singing with every gash
Of the drug addict's blade;
And chorusing empathically,
From the blood of the slain.

Murder:
It speaks with the tongue of destruction,
And howls with the voice of the Dead,
Each canto a promise carved in flesh,
Every line an ode to blood, pain and madness.