The Prison Of The Mind Poem by John F. McCullagh

She attracted his attention on the bleak deserted street.
Her skit was short, revealing; three inch heels upon her feet.
She reminded him of someone with herlong lush auburn hair.
Someone he'd killed and buried, but he'll never tell you where.

As she became aware of him, she quickened up her pace.
This was the part he'd always loved; the challenge of the chase.
He fingered the silk scarf he wore and would use as a garrotte.
He would steal the poor girl's breath away- unmourned and soon forgot.

As he closed within ten feet of her, his pulse began to race.
A migraine pounded in his head and blood rushed to his face.
He started seeing double, his body slumped down on the street.
His prey escaped his clutches; he acknowledged his defeat.

Behind a two way mirror the observers were ecstatic.
The implants in the killers brain had caused his pulse to go erratic.
Theirexperiment was a success, the first one of its kind.
No need for bars and concrete when the prison is the mind.