Black Blood
Black blood
Black blood trickles down the walls in the darkest of streets
Becomes a newspaper story in the morning journal for freaks
They never caught him they say as the train stops and another fat man seats
Living in a jungle is like sharing your own space with strangers that you may want to eat
A circus of buffoons juggling work with looking after children in a world of concrete
My stop thankfully before I vomit on the woman sitting next to me because she smells of meat
How I loathe the morning train from Waterloo station to Charing Cross as my fists beat a retreat
The killer kills again that very night and as of yet the profile and motive are incomplete
Who needs a motive when there are very few lions left and there are so many white Caucasian sheep
Another journey to the office to feel the banal stench in the air and eyes of peoples defeat
Yes I am the killer writing to you to help me stop but you don’t know me and the time is right to go out and kill again with my pen of deceit.
Copyright © Peter Kiggin | Year Posted 2013
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