Lichen Poem: Spark

In the ever consuming dark

There is no light

Except for a small spark

In the ever consuming silence

There is no sound

Except for quiet violence

It all lies in an old shed

Where a man is working

A man ruined in the head

He dissects on a table

He’s gained notoriety

His crimes like that of a fable

His victims lives taken

Their families hurt

Their families lives shaken

All for him, and his unholy meal

Giving out death

The wound that will never heal

No this isn’t fiction

This is no false depiction

Of a man who faced no jurisdiction

Yes it is sad

I confirm yes it’s true

Yet be glad

He could have gotten you…

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