Each morning I step from the dark
Of a deep sleep
With thrill seeking on my mind,
Setting out to rid the world
Of one more lazy mofo, and
Seeking the kind of pleasure
That my particular kind of violence
Brings to my able bodied soul.
Once it was not so,
Then a voice spoke to me,
Imploring me to join in,
To lose remorse, and
To go on a hunt
For exorcising demons
Is the way of those seeking sensation.
That first time,
Not drawing attention,
A cold, calloused, long-rehearsed
Pattern of silence,
Just close enough to be known,
Far enough away to know
Who could be dropped,
Who ran real fast,
Where I fit in.
Each day brought me closer,
Drawing them in,
Sizing them up,
Then it happened with the first disappearance.
Resistance to the early hour was gone.
Soon followed by shallow endurance.
Finally, the serial killing was complete,
When I got a nickname from the fire setting,
Morally flexible, and generally inappropriate sect
I knew I could hang socially.
Now, I find out that the herd was worried that first morning,
My stealthy shadow casting fear and doubt
In the normally well-adjusted and confident
Band of runners.
Little do they know that they are the murderers complicit in
Helping me take control of a twenty-eight year funk.
The deeds have been done,
The sentence is for lightness,
The running is for fun.