Murder In The Mind Poem by Fred Jack Amikoonsgiyamanitoumahwhingon Miles

It was a sharp and gory knife he placed in his cold but sweaty hand, as he deliberately touched with his other apparently normal hand, the skin covering the soft mound containing within the dreams and the means of future generations, which now would never come. His hand felt small bumps knowing such bumps can come from fear as well as cold. Yet with the deft skills of the hunters of a millennium of past generations, without sympathy fueled by the pulses from his own heartless blood, he thrust with all the callousness of a cat biting through the heart of a baby bird. Only he knew this was different. Like the bird, this was living. But this was not food which his tongue would ever savour. As he thought this, the liquid of a dying life burst out from the edge of the cold hard knife, spilling out into a world in which it's physical existence would soon be fading. But he wasn't through with his grisly chore. A stab was not enough, he slit his victim as though he was merely slicing a loaf, watching for the first time the fresh and moist meat from within until he knew no sound would ever emit from the poor innocence he had so brutally defiled. Then suddenly, like the guilt of a conscience, he heard a voice outside of the reaches his empty existence cry out, as though in extreme anguish, 'Honey, you better hurry up with my orange, the commercials are almost over.'