General Writing Poetry

The Boss

Under the breath of taking, he was fixed and monstrous.

The outer layer covered with idle and porous.

It’s like handing in the homework, he hit every aspect of the criteria.

On that spot his feet on, he was a serial killer,
murdered every naive wannabe.

Their deaths would remain a mystery to themselves, buried as midden.

With the scimitar, he bladed in like a Persian soldier,
liquidating by any means.

His skills were the mastery of poultry.

A clean slice on the throat, it flooded out the redness.

The fat tissues of their bellies, puked out the fleshes.

It attracted the vultures to stop by,
they were waiting for the bloody skulls to dry.

Bloods dripped like morning rain droplets on his wootz steel,
while he stood on the piles of dead leaves, beheaded the commandant of the opposition.

Ruthless, brutal, a carnage with a mortician,
he walked away with nine witnesses stumbled in deliberation.

Re-definition of killing,
the ashes and leaves wisping with every descending of his foot steps.

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