at first glance there's

a beautiful mind

and such potential,

but beneath it's bent

on bringing out the dead

from their peaceful sleep,

like so much pulp

fiction masking the perfect storm,

and the entire canvas is bleak vanilla

sky painted watery white by

an artist with eyes wide shut,

the score a looping siren-song

performed faithfully by the silence

of the lambs on their way to slaughter,

the shining in their unkowing eyes

vibrating a stir of echoes from

the deep, but the black panic

ripples away harmlessly

as a time to kill grows close

and what dreams may come give

no relief to the dreamers--the sheep

in line, in waiting, in

total trust of the machinist,

an american psycho with

a hair trigger and a cool hand,

luke