Memories chase after him like a murderer's glove,
bruised and bloodied. Fugitive thoughts are nighttime
shadows springing from an abnormal mind, the wrong
shade of red. Scarcely remembered are the others, like a
child standing with its face pressed, distorted against glass.
Darkness closes in as a ravenous crow, sadistic urges
a devouring flesh. Emotionless eyes laugh coldly,
"Either way they die." Driving down the long highway,
he hunts for prey like the hawks he holds in high esteem,
bleeding offerings to the broken moonlight, nothing less
than the blatant face of death embracing itself.
Copyright © 2005, Alexis Child. All Rights Reserved.
Previously published in U.K.'s Sinfully
Twisted Magazine-Issue #2 April /06
&
Poe Little Thing-Issue #5 August /06
&
Reprinted in The Horror Zine-March 2012
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reproduced, or used for any other purpose without permission of the Author.