"I am sometimes Jonathan"

Come a little closer friends, and allow me to let you in,

On a clever little secret that has silently been,

In the back of my mind for awhile,

Perhaps bottled up in some psychosomatic vial . . .

There exists a man, I know him well,

If not for change, he’d be in Hell,

His name is Jonathan, and his dress,

Is his very passion to impress,

With a creamy, ivory hue of suit,

Tapered all the way to his boot.

His eyes hold power, they hold a flame,

Burning red with what some call shame,

Yet balanced they are because of shades,

And shades of blue, which never fades,

Even when he’s hungry for killing,

Fresh, young women with blood for spilling.

He coolly catches each innocent glance,

Caressing their fears, and introducing chance,

And he quietly brings them to his lair,

Kissing them gently and petting their hair,

The girls lose themselves in his vat of charm,

Trusting and trusting he’ll do them no harm,

The first victim, was disgustingly pretty,

Prancing and teasing the men in the city,

And there stalked Jonathan, floating behind her,

Waiting like the patient and villainous spider,

Squeezing her shoulder, so curious, so coy,

Leading her like his most precious toy,

Pleading for her to only spend one night,

With him and his undying, deliciously delight,

To bring her to her delicate knees,

To hear her musical, yet terrified pleas.

Jonathan was swift, and in his pocket burned,

His knife, and just as she reluctantly turned,

He caught her retreat with a deep inlaid sliver,

Across her pale neck, along her intense shiver.

Ultimate pain! He reveled in her screams,

Such satisfaction, comes not but in his dreams,

Yet now, he can have a new, warm body to hold,

Hold, until her trembling skin turns icy cold,

And one soul sold, is sold to himself,

The blasphemous, deep act put upon a shelf,

And all of the others claim,

That he is surely insane,

And curse and condemn his fame,

That he now has from his murderous raid,

But, there still are more girls to be laid,

Down in his bed, somehow they crave,

The style and scent of him, how they cave,

Into their own murder, and with each indifference,

Born from all the witnesses hiding in their hindrance,

Lives are being wasted; it’s just one less face,

Among the sea of our damnable race.

Apathy quickly turns into malleable minds,

Sanity quickly turns into illogically new finds,

And a majority find killing, quite a touch of fun,

Clearly by the polishing of each polite gun.

Morality, how weak, how frail,

And if not anything, take this from my tale,

Who decides what is wrong and what’s right?

Who determines the name of day or night?

Consider each life taken,

To be just one person mistaken,

By the very beginnings of ethics and reign,

Of ignorant people who kill for their name,

Rather than taking lives for some tragic goal,

Without giving up a cornered, corroded soul,

Or maybe corrupting the soul of another shell,

Living so reverently in their own hell,

To embrace the pre-taught concept of life,

To never dream of using a knife,

Without just cause, on another person waiting,

For another numbing sip of systematic jading,

And another rule to follow,

Leaves their individuality hollow,

Jonathan knew his brilliant plan adorned,

With revolution would move the most conformed,

And lift the burden from their eyes,

Go now, to love you lost disguise.

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