A Killer's Conscience

The knife, sharp as the wit of the beholder

Dripped with the liquid that oozed out of her frail, lily skin

Thick and sweet and sticky 

And he drank it all, every last bit of it. 

Laughed like he had conquered the skies.

His footsteps echoed on the secluded road embellished with smoke-stained buildings.

She belonged to him, little by little he stole her, until now

There was nothing more left to give. 

The sky transformed from a bright blue to a devilish red

Darkness stormed into its throne room

And the killer stood on the empty town square and cackled to the dim stars

That seemed to almost mourn her demise. 

His room had never seemed more comfortable as he lay down

His mustache twitching with undeniable pleasure

Yet a few hours in came the shame

Its weight exerted on him the worst form of torture

As he lugged himself all around town.

The missing smile, that tinkling laugh

It had just disappeared into the misty morning

The urge to remain hidden overcame his senses

Every turn he made, and yet he fled in the opposite direction.

No friend seemed like a friend

More like someone out for blood. 

Sweat pouring down his face

He knew he had made a decision. 

The day dawned 

His palms frigid

Warm sweat pouring down his face

Veins bulging from his forehead

He heard his name being called.

Knees knocking, he stood up.

Trembling from head to foot

'I am a murderer...' 

He confessed to the stone-faced men in uniform

That stood in front of him.