The Murderer

Tue, 08/08/2017 - 12:51 -- phil

He stared into the mirror

His mind was set.

He had no fear

Life was his pet.

Everything in grasp,

He could see his reflection

The man of his past

He had good complexion   


He whistled As time reflected

Something had changed

Nothing was able to be recollected,

something that wasn't there came

He squinted, a stain

A smudge he thought

No it was A crack in the glass

It had started to rot


As he watched through a blur

He wasn't the same

He couldn't remember his name

When he spoke it was in a slur

His physique had changed

His skin tattered, wrinkled

His face was tired, aged

Eyes swollen and back Bent 


When he screamed his voice was a gurgle, a bubbly screech

What he had become...

He stared back into his reflection

It had a Smirk on its face

Laughing at him, he couldnt retrace,


A fog had covered up his eyes,

was it smoke, blackness?

No it was heavier, ash, he was suffocating

he couldn't see through these lies

He coughed, his insides were twisted,

From clenching his teeth to long


He could still feel the ice cold burn,

Something had stuck him, 

Through the blur he could not see,

Only a shadow, a mutated figure

As he felt the object behind the fog,

He realized they were his hands,

Holding the silver of a blade,

Melting into the sticky warmth of his blood


Confused he blinked, trying to push these hallucinations away,

warmth came out of his mouth,

he was throwing up

He squinted, He let the darkness into his eyes for a moment,

But nothing had changed,

he was living this dream.


His insides dissolved as he stayed blind, he was drowning in panic.

His eyes burned, skin stretched, they opened, and finally he could see,

He looked at the mirror at last, 

He looked at the ground, the dust,

But he saw fear, broken glass,

Scattered, all trickled in blood

This poem is about: 


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