Sunday

If he sounds desperate,
it's because he is.
If his pulse throbs like
a captured raptor seeking liberty,
it's because he fears.
Oh my!
Where did the charm go?
The manners? The artificial grace that
scores of Venuses were falling for?
Sunday.
While he huddles up on the centre of his snare
recollecting sleeping souls,
blank gazes and bloodstained hands,
the fright of paying the price for his twisted desires
grows with each hour.

Sunday.
What a pathetic caged monster he must appear to be,
waiting and trembling
as the clock strikes 3:00.
'15, '30, '50 and finally 4:00,
helpless and fated
he's counting down for the bitter end to arrive.
''What I say IS law!''
he used to holler at the "weak"
seconds before stealing their very last breath.
But now what?
Shackled and confined,
he stares at the victorious face of justice and
drops penitent tears.

Sunday.
The urge to jump off the barbed wire fence
and run, run, run,
roams across his wicked veins.
But it's way too late.
Time has come.
Sunday.
His ruthless sentence approaches,
guiding him to the hostile deathly chamber that
reeks of scorched human flesh.
He quivers. He cries. He pleads for his release.
But it's way too late.
Time has come.

Sunday.
When he finally stops! Stands still.
Surrenders, as the bell tolls.
Realising that
now,
there's no way to disobey the trend.
Rules can't be defied, nor can they bend.
Sunday.
The day his conscious opens its eyes
and through the room's window faces a
living hell.
Raising its head with pride and a
malicious smirk, ready to
wear its blanched crown.
Oh my!
Really, what an entrancing package with such
awful content.

Two thousand volts of adrenaline
running through his body while
swallowing the souls.
Two thousand volts of electricity while
he's paying for his faults.