The Accent of Death (The Voice that Talks to a Killer Inside His Head): a poem By John McKinley Pride Jr
The mind bridges the gap between the sane and the insane.
What eats the brain into submission that takes over its transgressions,
cutting off the transmissions which raises the questions?
What makes friction between the skull and the spine, makes the picture clearer inside, deep where things hide a shatter of diamonds, a prism of thoughts, and a tunnel of hallucinations that clamber times walls?
Bridges between realities.
Bridges between ones fantasies.
Bridges burnt down by pure insanity.
Bridges from right to left to let them tell you who you are.
Is there a bridge to clarity?
Is there a color for every mood?
Don’t be the one who creates the gap; be the bridge to clarity.
Show them all who you really are. Toil with them; leave them clues.
You are immortal; no one can stop you.
There will be no one before you, and there will be no one after you
who can cheat death like you do.
Go ahead; take the hand of demise, and watch your numbers grow.
It does not mater who; you are the king of deaths thrown.
You wear a crown of bones, watch them scream, and cry for help; your strength just grows.
They will beg and plead for you not to do harm, but you choose their fate now.
Show them who you are; show them what you can do; show them their own fear,
and devour it like a life line to your murky soul.
You are invincible.
You stand alone against all who do not understand you.
You are the God of death.
You stand alone against this world
By John McKinley Pride Jr