Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

Dahmer

His was a strangely robust, enduring figure

yet he walked in shadow, doom clinging to him

like a shroud.

Death was ever his lover.

"Stay with me for an hour

Or two, or three

Or for eternity," he said to me.

His eyes are

Doors without a keyhole

And his heart is walled in.

Media vita in morte sumus.