The Florist

I love the aroma of bitter almonds
Crisp clear mornings
Clean paved paths 
Flowers that mask

I love the notion that you will smell it  and never know why, never will you understand why you deserved to die.

I watch your window with anticipation by my side, he runs his fingers up my spine, it tingles like pins and needles.

Touch it, tilt it, let the mercury flow through it......Boom

The deed is done.

I leer at your receptionist, she  staggeres, I can almost feel her confusion, the ringing in her skull, like the tintinnabulation of an angles trumpet, signaling the end of life.

I'm not sure why I do what I do, I can't help but fixate on matters that realistically, do not involve me. 

My fascination lies within destruction, sometimes on a clear day I can see there souls rising like streams of light and dust.

Honestly, it's perfection, the smell of rust lingers above the street, satisfying my blood lust.

His body has become stretched, like a wave of atoms and breath, just enough time for inhalation before the police arrive.

This is my cocaine
This is my drive
This is my life.

I am 

The Florist.