If the bones could speak


If the bones could speak,
they would talk of Mr Meek.

A man who takes pride in his work.
A devious soul who in the shadows does lurk.

Waiting for the ones who do not feel the cold,
those who are naive and need to be told.

That monsters do exist and walk freely among us,
passing you by in the street or sat beside you on the bus.

You may talk to them from time to time,
and consider their candour to be cool or even sublime.

But you may feel a slight chill for the danger you face:
your primal instinct for the predator who might give chase.

So look deep into the shadows as you make your way,
listen hard for the ominous sounds as you live-out your day.

For there is a deviant who looks upon your poor soul,
with a mind that relishes the game and your role.

Your screams will be like Mozart’s Requiem to his ears;
a struggle no more than an exercise he has practised for years.

Until the flesh is torn away and you are reduced to bone,
soon to be bundled into a deep hole and left all alone.

If your bones could speak,
they would talk of Mr Meek.


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