The Lady in Red

She walks with the flowing grace of God,
Wearing ever piece of jewellery she owns,
A moth eaten dress from the 40's or maybe even the 50's,
Long brittle nails, that can tear open your skin.

She talks as if tommorow was never to come,
using words i've never even heard of before.
A tone she speaks naturally, so elegant and fragile,
But it's the sweetness that draws you to her being.

She is the middle aged lady in a frizzy red dress,
That sits in her window,
Everyday and ever night.
Reading books that aren't even sold in bookstores,
With a wine glass half filled with sparkling water.

She is out-casted, But a part of her own community,
Going to picnics - Sitting at the back with her pretty hat,
Relaxing, laying in the sun to tan her pale white skin.
Closing her eyes, still being The Lady in Red.

Murderer

The mountain of truth,
Shadowed by the mountain of lies.
Hear the sorrow,
The screams and the painful cries,
Those of the haunted,
And those of the dead,
Are no competition,
To those we all dread.
Those that murder,
And those that kill,
Those that with every death,
Get an exiting thrill.
Once those criminals have had that taste,
There's no keeping track.
They come back for more,
And there's no turning back.