A weather change. Shadows fall. New scent upon the wind--decay. Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings. Death is a banker. Everyone pays. Dean Koontz, The Book of Counted Sorrows The scent of blood and sex upon his hands, His head pounds as he inhales her slipstream; He wants to know her but he cannot, Will not refuse to resist the urge To let his imagination manifest, must protest, Although he's dying to explore the flesh, He lets his words undo the rest, His travesties unwitnessed, In the mourning light when the pain is best. A weather change. Shadows fall. No one suspects that it is he Who paints these nightmares in black and red, And creates worlds where he chooses who lives, His hands free to caress their flesh, To do as he pleases and discard what's left; Trapped inside his child's shell, Armed with deception: his most powerful weapon, He wields a doll of black and white pixels, And adds all their corpses to his wretched collection. New scent upon the wind--decay. With no one to listen he turns to the page, The ear that's always open, And finds a secret place inside himself, Where he may perform forbidden acts, His darkest fantasies unbidden; The bitter pill grins at him: Take me, or two, or twenty, Wash me down with poison water That leaves you hollow, empty. Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings. He chooses not these thoughts, Bleeding palms intertwining: Sadism and eroticism, Wed in unholy matrimony, Yet there must always be a schism; Death will claim him in the end, Death all strings will sever, Death's tongue will ache, his breath will bate, But death can wait forever. Death is a banker. Everyone pays.