Fairwell, Mr Chikatilo
Blood that soaks through dress,
In the kind of murder where childhood dies,
Where innocence of the gentle flower is cast away,
In a sea of gore,
Nothing like one had ever seen before.
Watching those bodies,
Those persons, wandering,
Beside him,
As he sits, cross legged,
Like a nipper, on a crisp, white wine morrow -
He perches beholding what is in full bloom ahead of him,
Young girls, little boys, like he once was –
A meagre, distasteful child,
Deluded by his own misjudgement of love,
Consumed by thoughts of immoral acts,
Like love making.
Bitty polished boots toddle past,
Longing for his gentle, playful affection,
As if the child needed, begged for it.
Morbid thirst awakens him,
as the little legs toddle on,
of the infant boy.
MISSING
Spats and spills of fresh ruby,
trickling downwards,
as if what he's doing is angelic, blameless.
Petals scattered as always, red ones,
It's been so long,
Now he's gone.
He's looking for another –
Lover.
Milling around in the same place,
where he'd never been questioned,
where tots are easier to find.
On a dusky day, warm and purple.
Staring towards his scant toys, merrily indulging the night,
Tiny frames, little bones,
running side by side with each other
unpractised hands laced,
because they didn't know of love or desire,
they did not know of him.
Another male graced to him,
at hand a ledger, and a pen
smiling back like a little innocent pretty petal,
whose fait was thought to home.
Was now instead with this man,
with pale eyes sunken from a long life.
Watch them walk away...
Foolish boy.
MISSING
He acuminates a book,
with some of the pages burnt away
from when he gets chafed
because he doesn't control it anymore.
There are stained pages likewise,
when he gets it out after the children have gone.
Scanning the scraps,
the notes he writes,
about the parts, which he keeps,
locked away from the people lodging with him,
who had no perception,
of how the man loved babies.
Looking down at his hands, what they had done to his darlings,
Concentrating on the shape,
pale faced, like porcelain,
such an ideal minor
whose graces mock his own so, so delightfully.
Her hair in plats, that her mother did.
Amused face beaming down,
where the blood had stained her petticoat.
MISSING
So content and pleased,
reaching an older age,
with this closet tightly secured,
and no one was allowed in.
Staring back at the torn pages of the book, of his only longed memories.
Until the doors came crashing down,
around his dreams.
Rushing figures come to her peacefulness,
repulsed.
Farewell, Mr Chikatilo
In the kind of murder where childhood dies,
Where innocence of the gentle flower is cast away,
In a sea of gore,
Nothing like one had ever seen before.
Watching those bodies,
Those persons, wandering,
Beside him,
As he sits, cross legged,
Like a nipper, on a crisp, white wine morrow -
He perches beholding what is in full bloom ahead of him,
Young girls, little boys, like he once was –
A meagre, distasteful child,
Deluded by his own misjudgement of love,
Consumed by thoughts of immoral acts,
Like love making.
Bitty polished boots toddle past,
Longing for his gentle, playful affection,
As if the child needed, begged for it.
Morbid thirst awakens him,
as the little legs toddle on,
of the infant boy.
MISSING
Spats and spills of fresh ruby,
trickling downwards,
as if what he's doing is angelic, blameless.
Petals scattered as always, red ones,
It's been so long,
Now he's gone.
He's looking for another –
Lover.
Milling around in the same place,
where he'd never been questioned,
where tots are easier to find.
On a dusky day, warm and purple.
Staring towards his scant toys, merrily indulging the night,
Tiny frames, little bones,
running side by side with each other
unpractised hands laced,
because they didn't know of love or desire,
they did not know of him.
Another male graced to him,
at hand a ledger, and a pen
smiling back like a little innocent pretty petal,
whose fait was thought to home.
Was now instead with this man,
with pale eyes sunken from a long life.
Watch them walk away...
Foolish boy.
MISSING
He acuminates a book,
with some of the pages burnt away
from when he gets chafed
because he doesn't control it anymore.
There are stained pages likewise,
when he gets it out after the children have gone.
Scanning the scraps,
the notes he writes,
about the parts, which he keeps,
locked away from the people lodging with him,
who had no perception,
of how the man loved babies.
Looking down at his hands, what they had done to his darlings,
Concentrating on the shape,
pale faced, like porcelain,
such an ideal minor
whose graces mock his own so, so delightfully.
Her hair in plats, that her mother did.
Amused face beaming down,
where the blood had stained her petticoat.
MISSING
So content and pleased,
reaching an older age,
with this closet tightly secured,
and no one was allowed in.
Staring back at the torn pages of the book, of his only longed memories.
Until the doors came crashing down,
around his dreams.
Rushing figures come to her peacefulness,
repulsed.
Farewell, Mr Chikatilo