The Killer's NIghtmare

It was just a dream; a bad dream I admit.
But just a dream.

Floating in an achromatic black of space
I languorously twist and sway,
like some medieval carcass
left to rot on the gallows.
Crows pick at my blinded eyes that see
a fetid confusion, a miasma
that bubbles and belches below.
A wisp of gray seeps into the black,
and with it the sight of my cadaver
a desiccated blob of mold and maggots
and an overwhelming sweetness of carrion.

I hear her music
and watch her rising from the slime
in slow sensual dance of suggested seduction.
My Freebie.  My first elimination.
That stupid little twit who thought
she could whore on me.
With bloody hands I reach for her
only to see her face melt away
like bleeding candle drippings.

A mesmerizing chill of yellow
shoots up my spine.

Moans echo from the shadows
and ghosts glide into view.
I recognize each face.  They are my past.
Their laughter echoes
a Dolby reverberation
that wakens me.

It was just a dream, I tell myself.
Or was it?
Was it a warning, an omen of disaster?
Was it telling me that She
(the She that he wants dead)
would not meet Death,
but I would?
I need to ponder about Tomorrow.