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Array ( [sid] => 185586 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => The Lamb That Spat out Wolf [time] => 2018-11-09 20:51:32 [hometext] => Some say those who kill are predestined by what shapes them as a child. We have to make up our own minds on that. This poem is written through the mind of a serial killer with that belief [bodytext] => Look into the dark chasm of my broken mind
See the splinters of childhood where silk thread should have been
Light of innocence tinged with the smoky cloud of bitterness
I offer that as logic to my action, defiant to my deeds

Malevolence is the torch I grasped with both hands
I wield finality from shining blade, drawn swift to open vein
Mercy locked in the box with no key made to open
Pleasure at last rasping breath that succumbs to unending silence

Death is a gift, I am her willing keeper
Art without a brush, my palette each pulse of fading corpse
Terror is but a moment, savour and embrace it
I offer you your freedom, for the price of a pool of blood

I watch your eyes with envy, your purity preserved
Your wounds are fresh but you are cured, while mine are ground with salt
Mother was I broken, that child kicked in the dirt?
The lamb that spat out wolf, now howls at the world.
[comments] => 3 [counter] => 199 [topic] => 13 [informant] => puppy_dog_eyes [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )

The Lamb That Spat out Wolf

Contributed by puppy_dog_eyes on Friday, 9th November 2018 @ 08:51:32 PM in AEST
Topic: DarkPoetry

Look into the dark chasm of my broken mind
See the splinters of childhood where silk thread should have been
Light of innocence tinged with the smoky cloud of bitterness
I offer that as logic to my action, defiant to my deeds

Malevolence is the torch I grasped with both hands
I wield finality from shining blade, drawn swift to open vein
Mercy locked in the box with no key made to open
Pleasure at last rasping breath that succumbs to unending silence

Death is a gift, I am her willing keeper
Art without a brush, my palette each pulse of fading corpse
Terror is but a moment, savour and embrace it
I offer you your freedom, for the price of a pool of blood

I watch your eyes with envy, your purity preserved
Your wounds are fresh but you are cured, while mine are ground with salt
Mother was I broken, that child kicked in the dirt?
The lamb that spat out wolf, now howls at the world.

Copyright © puppy_dog_eyes ... [ 2018-11-09 20:51:32]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: The Lamb That Spat out Wolf (User Rating: 1 )
by northernlights on Tuesday, 13th November 2018 @ 04:48:10 AM AEST
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"The lamb that spat out wolf/'/ what a great description and exploration of the origins and actions of a serial killer. Who and what creates the monster is always a source of fascination. One day we may discover even more answers!

Re: The Lamb That Spat out Wolf (User Rating: 1 )
by allforyou on Monday, 19th November 2018 @ 12:29:11 AM AEST
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Especially loved "art without a brush, my palette each pulse of fading corpse"...but that last line was the real killer. I like the way your poetic mind works.

Re: The Lamb That Spat out Wolf (User Rating: 1 )
by Invierno on Saturday, 27th August 2022 @ 10:40:28 AM AEST
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Where to start?

"I wield finality from shining blade, drawn swift to open vein" Excellent use of word sound..not sound, but /'/core/'/ sound to grab a rhyme scheme like /'/blade/'/ and /'/vein/'/; not rhyming at all as words, but in the /'/aaa/'/ sound.There is a word for ejimicated folks that addresses that exact use of words, but it has slipped away with a mountain into a cave.

"I offer you your freedom, for the price of a pool of blood" Perfect! What a line! Reminds me of The Merchant Of Venice, "Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me." And also, as I recall the ending, Shylock loses all; his faith, his money, his due.

As do you English, to be ground under upon the wheels of the Murder Machine. But if it is any condolence, us yanks will have our moment under those wheels as well.

"Your wounds are fresh but you are cured, while mine are ground with salt". M/'/thinks thou hast a bend and lend of ear for the Bard. I love this line...it is yours, and mighty is the arrangement of the words.

Well, well done.

Invierno

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