Craving

When you see the dead, day after day.
Sometimes broken and old.
Sometimes young and violated.
You get used to it and after the first few  times, it won't matter eitherway.

After you've seen a million and one.
All their cuts and bruises.
All that dried blood.
It sparks something you never knew, but always felt.

Each body they bring,
Now is exciting and fresh.
Each cut and bruise,
Arousing, it tempts.

So you spend your days,
Breathing in the dead.
Kissing their pale faces.
Becoming one with them.

A finger from here,  and eye from there.
It's easy to take,  no one checks the dead.
Carving and keeping,
Small trophies, like gems.

The fascination doesn't end.
Each day renewed vigour it brings.
It seems innocent.
You can't kill the dead.

Suddenly one day, no one dies,
The balance is shifted.
You crave, your craving.
Your fix, doesnt fare well.

Ravenous and wanting,
You roam the streets.
If they can't come to you,
You'll go to them.

The first victim,  a redhead.
Sickly and pale,  
Just like the ones,
You see everyday.

Like a coward,you attack from behind.
Scared she'd run away
You tried asking but that didnt work,
So you hit her instead.

Awake at last,
In the chamber of the dead.
Restrained and petrified,  
The look in her eyes gives you your thrill.

Trial and error,
A small cut on her skin.
As her fear builds,
So does the thrill.

So deeper you go,
This time driving it in.
Ruptering,  destroying.
First faster then with precision.

Tired,  but still alluding release.
The carotid weakens,
Faint beats, still not dead.
Drumming against your soul.

Frustrated, needing more.
The ultimate beckons
Scalpel in hand
He goes in for the kill

Slash!  The cut is made.
Blood gushes out.
Crimson, so pure,
As life leaves her soul.

Satisfaction beyond,
Life's wildest thrill.
A release, so explosive,
It dies and then begins.

Victim after victim,
All alive,
Then dead,
Different,but just like before.

A cure so temporary,
It keeps demanding more.
A message, to scream,
Each time he soars.

Finally, one escapes
The beginning of the end
But all she kept screaming was,
"I am the mortician, I crave the dead."

The Pacifist