A Killer Who Became A Farmer

A man with distant and cold eyes once told me that he wanted to become a farmer….
I  asked, “If you could live a life bereft of responsibilities and money were no object, who would you want to be?”
He said, “A farmer.”
“A farmer!” I responded confused.
“Does that sound so impossible that a killer like me, with blood stains on his hands would want to be a simple farmer?”
“No,” I had replied, “it makes complete sense.”
“How is that? A farmer creates while I destroy.”
“That blood you speak of,” I said, “can be used as fertilizer.”
He didn’t respond so I continued:
“Imagine this, you are a farmer and the there is a crop that isn’t growing properly, too much sun not enough water. What to do? Fertilizer is nectar to a plant, using the power and energy of others to aid the crop. So instead of fertilizer, you use the power of the blood to nourish it.”
“How can blood help?” he finally spoke up after a moment of awkward silence.
“How can blood not help? Remember, blood is pumping in your veins! It sustains your life! So what I’m trying to say is, being a farmer is not a long shot, my friend.”
“It is written in the stars… No, it is written in the blood.”
Dark eyes watch the inclement skies
Wrinkles in his forehead
as the dark clouds tumble by,
Taunting the farmer with the hint of rain
That his crops so desperately need.
What is a simple man to do
When famine is his doom?
So the farmer,
With a determination in his jet eyes
Takes his knife, slicing sweat-stained skin
Like the neck of a squealing pig,
To feed the earth with his blood,
That carries the strength of many men,
“Who wish death upon thee–”

The crops grow and the people rejoice
And the taciturn farmer watches idly by,
Scrutinizing the taunting clouds with haunting, envious eyes.
Can a killer create,
If his hands are cursed from the blood,
That paints his hands like a ripe, pulpy summer berry?
It lingers on his fingers, dripping with sticky and unyielding crimson,
The stabbing sweet aroma blinding the air with hues of the deepest of reds,
staining his flesh dark sienna with juices,
And etches deep, dark symbols on his soul.
Does he ever dream of being a part of the never-ending sky,
Where his sins and the haunted spirits of martyrs
do not linger?
They don’t judge in the sky,
For they have committed worse sins
In the name of the Lord,
For they “wish death upon thee”

Do the birds sing in Heaven?
The farmer wonders,
Lying in the sweet grass,
Sun caressing his face with tender strokes,
Do they sound just as lovely to a condemned man as they do to a saint?
“Wish death upon me”

Blood, staining my mouth,
Like a lovers rouge,
Dionysus parts my lips with expert ease,
Wine red, medium-bodied, Cabernet,
Sweet and bitter, as the tastes collide…
A hint of dark cherries stroking my tongue,
teasing me with the hint of ambrosia
Never allowing me to reach the sweet spot of Nirvana.
I tip my head back as his devilish laugh,
Fills the air with tension, sending the innocent scurrying.
Never looking back as I leave my soul in the deepest of blacks.
Embracing me as a familiar lover,
I close my eyes as I give into the oblivion,
That seems more comforting than home.
Will I ever know why….
Will I ever know why I was born in Hell–
a blanket of the purest of hate,
swaddling me as a suckling pink babe,
my hungry, lonely tears,
filling the abyss, blending with the cacophony of the misunderstood.
Will I ever know why I was raised from the teat of a monster–
who left me to the wolves without a backwards glance,
head thrown back in ecstasy as she sells her soul for pleasure.
Did the Lord…”Wish death upon thee”
My hands were shaped, created, sculpted like an Italian Renaissance fanatic–
for murder?
A murderer is a professional of sorts,
It makes sense for a master to spend hours,
To create a flawless specimen like me.
I am fast like a panther,
Dark and flexible–I blend in the midnight,
Careful to prevent any unprofessional fright.
An assassin, I crave the blanket of the night,
Swaddling me in a ministry of frost as I make my kills.
I hunt without a pack,
A well-fed lone wolf with a weakness for murder,
who thrives on pursuing the weak.
Will the thirst for pain,
The horrifying moans of those departing, extremely sudden and terrifying,
Will the sounds become less sublime?
A nasty tang in my mouth,
Will I not adjust?
Sweet, dark berries, decadent on my tongue, lingering on my lips,
Each lap of the tongue is even more divine…
I cannot get enough of the taste, oh my…
“A farmer,”he said.
“A farmer,” I said.
“Where do I start and what should I grow?” His jet eyes grew hard with anxiety.
“How can I be a farmer–”
I had taken his right hand, calloused with scars on the knuckles. The index finger was slightly twisted and his nails were dirty, crusted with drying blood and graveyard dirt, and bitten to the quick.
“Like I said, it is all in the blood,” I said, “the blood will teach you, as it taught your ancestors.
It is in the blood, the blood, the b-l-o-o-d……”
A man with distant and cold eyes once told me that he wanted to become a farmer…. And I told him anything is possible as long as you believe in the b-l-o-o-d….
“Wish death upon thee–”
“Wish death upon thee–”
“Wish death upon thee–”

4 thoughts on “A Killer Who Became A Farmer

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