National Poetry Month: day 9/poem 9

Another college era poem.


Dead Count 8

Down the stairs and into the hall,
The blood poured like a waterfall,
Staining the carpet eerie brown;
Never gonna knock this demon down.

Along the path his footsteps fell,
Almost tripping in Satan’s well;
He ran from an Oedipus fate
That never could he try escape.

He thought for sure that he had won,
Having just bought the fatal gun;
Yet after the disturbing shot,
Police sirens roared on the spot.

Freedom lasted a brief moment,
Forever following (in) torment;
What demons had taken a-hold
This once secure and stable mold?

If ever there was a chance to sin,
God would be drunk on the finest gin,
And to the Devil he would sing,
And forget all mortals living.
Define the terror
Of his black error
And know within your struggle and strife,
The ever present meaning of life.