At once he felt privileged
on how easily he could take a life,
so much power he had
with a simple kitchen knife,
sometimes he forgot to appreciate
his special position in life as Jack,
as he had control over his attack,
he nailed his victim to the floor,
haunting moments behind closed doors,
blood on the window,
and blood on the door,
his knife screaming with intensity. More! More!
Life on his victim flickering like a flame,
and his name filled with fame,
slashing with no shame,
and that’s his killing game,
and he relishes knowing that Jack is his name,
the only witness was a beaded butterfly,
perched on the window sill,
if it could, it would cry,
as he continues with the kill,
and there is not a single tear in that beaded butterfly’s eye,
so after the killing is done,
it takes flight.,
like a coward on the run,
avoiding the chilling, haunting, fright,
as it travels with this vision throughout the night.