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The wind was blowing and the blood was flowing, Not the blood of a lion or wolf but the blood of an animal, A true beast. He had no name. He was no longer worthy of one, he had murdered and raped more than once. He had murdered the hope he had once given and raped himself of any truth. He was a generous man handing out misery to many ask him for a hand and he'd give you twenty. He lacked the knowledge, to stop his hate. The hate that had killed and would kill again. It would stop at noone, until he was gone, then it would all be over... Until the next time. * * * * * * * The rain kept on pouring It never stopped. Didn't hold a thought, for those who could not shelter, from its chilling drops. Everywhere was cold and wet, only the people who had homes would be dry that winter. Only those who dined out, who drank expensive wines, only those who would die Expensive deaths! sachmet, 1997
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