poems

Eight weeks, eight kills,
Each a twisted crucifixion:
Upside down, on Sunday found;
A killer with a mission.

He took them each on Friday,
Sometime in the night.
Fearful, a decree was made
To stay in when there’s no light.

But teenagers will always be
Victims of their own bravado.
In a clearing in the woods:
Bonfire, peer and bottle.

Christine never was a party girl;
But she came for friends who were.
Tommy handed her a drink that night…
All the rest’s a blur.

She remembers running,
Tears streaming down her face —
Straight into a man,
Who held her for a space;

Then he looked her in the eyes
And she realized who he was.
She remembers trying to scream,
But all the rest is fuzz.

She wakes up in a tiny room,
Tied up to a chair;
Another opposite of her:
That same man sitting there.

He…