Confession - 13

So comes this written confession,

Writ by myself, Martin Bloom:

Consigned to a horrible doom;

A sentence of lethal injection --

A state I shall gladly assume, 

Just to end this wretched infection,

Never to let it exhume.

I won't even try to deny it --

Murder'd corrupted my soul;

Killing them made me feel whole, 

And gave me a much-needed quiet,

But somewhere, I lost all control,

Acting as merely a pilot

For some other psychopath's goal.

Of course, I know that doesn't matter;

They're dead, and a price must be paid --

Such judgement I'd never evade --

For let's face it: I bathed in the splatter, 

My morals and conscience decayed,

I served up their souls on a platter,

So I'll lie in the bed that I made.

Yet still I can hear jacket's calling,

Up from the cold forest ground --

A haunting, ethereal sound,

Shrill in my head, wretched squalling,

Craving my flesh by the pound;

Its shadowy voice has me bawling, 

Praying I'll be stabbed or drowned.

I've reached the end of my story

(In no way an innocence pitch), 

This horrid, unscratchable itch

My nightmarish memento mori;

I'm ready to gurgle and twitch --

I beg you, my grim reaper -- hurry,

It's coming for me! Throw the switch!

(fin)

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-- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

(Thanks for reading, everyone.)