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 ) Your Poetry Dot Com - The Lamb That Spat out Wolf


The Lamb That Spat out Wolf
Date: Friday, 9th November 2018 @ 08:51:32 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: puppy_dog_eyes
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.


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