Life After Life

She lay before me.

Her pretty face was

Turned away;

Such a shame.


She usually kept her hair in a short plait

But now it was spilled across the white carpet.

It was a nice, canary yellow colour-

A bundle of glistening sun.

It was a pretty colour indeed.


Looking at her now

Who could ever think that

She was dead?

Death was not a word anyone

Associated with her.

No one.


Apart from me, of course.


From the first day I saw her,

I knew that she had to die.

Only death could show everyone her

True beauty.

The beauty of death.


I placed a black, withered rose

Upon her chest and smiled.

Her curled claws for fingers gripped it tightly.


Her face.

What a beautiful expression she showed

When she saw the knife.

That scream, her scream-

It was magnificent.


Death is the true art.


Did I tell you that this rose

Was once white?


This girl was a work of art.

She mistook my hatred for love;

She called every day

Hoping for an answer.

She was boring.

And I never kept anything that didn't

Thrill me.


But, I have trailed off.


The white was slowly turning to red-

The carpet was now ruined.

I thought and sneered-

She would have been so upset.


The room itself was dark

Apart from the soft golden light

That came from the two lit candles.

She prepared us dinner.


I picked up my glass of untouched wine

And emptied it into a small flower pot

With a blooming white orchid.


I watched the flowers wither and die

Together with the rest of the plant.

This wine represented our relationship quite well-

It was just as poisonous and



Before I left the silent flat

I turned to look at her dead body again.

To enjoy it.

Then, I walked out of the apartment

And slammed the door shut.


It was a cold winter night

But I was unable to feel the cold-

The memory of her curled body

Has kept me warm;

Warm and happy.


Then I saw her.


She was walking alone,

Crying to herself.

I smiled-

What a lucky day this was.


Then, I followed her.

She was my beautiful,

Beautiful victim.


Even if I take

Life after life,

I will never be

Neither caught nor punished.


Why, you ask?


I am but a shadow,

I may even be following you right now.

But you will never know,

Not until you are lying


With a withered rose

Upon your chest.


Death is an art,

An art of living.