Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #57
The Killer Sang A Hymn
by Belinda Roddie
The killer sang a hymn on his way to
the courtroom, wrists shackled in heavy lead,
praying, as hypocrites are wont to do
when demons act like God inside their heads.
The plea had been scrawled out, though festering
within the murderer's brain was a swarm
of pathogenic malice that could sting
a child's heart with no true physical harm.
He truly believed that he had carried
out the word of the Holy Man himself,
the dogma heavy, dank, with horrid reek
of anti-sacred passion that could melt
like golden ire inside the madman's eyes.
His death was martyrdom in hot disguise.
by Belinda Roddie
The killer sang a hymn on his way to
the courtroom, wrists shackled in heavy lead,
praying, as hypocrites are wont to do
when demons act like God inside their heads.
The plea had been scrawled out, though festering
within the murderer's brain was a swarm
of pathogenic malice that could sting
a child's heart with no true physical harm.
He truly believed that he had carried
out the word of the Holy Man himself,
the dogma heavy, dank, with horrid reek
of anti-sacred passion that could melt
like golden ire inside the madman's eyes.
His death was martyrdom in hot disguise.
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