Cold Case

It was a cold case from Milwaukee
that got them all talking sideways to Sunday.
He was let loose, with charcoal grin.

Shock was the look and feel of the townies;
as if a large, vicious attack dog was loudly approaching
to do everyone in.

You could almost hear their veins freeze.

Trash Can Man or Manson just leaning over the shoulder,
peeping into your soul.
A moment later, you would be manipulated into the unreal.

Life portraying a series of images where you remain the viewer.
Dream-like, waiting for the Faces of Death narrator to speak.

The grin repeats its dirty broadcast
over and over;
factory generated with slow motion replay.
Buried beneath the cold, cold ground, its remains.

Washing in a shower of ice.
I've got my dead Daddy's trousers
Dead Daddy's trousers
Got my dead Daddy's trousers to put on.

You could hear our veins freeze of mortal movement.
Stopping the blood to our hearts.

On the loose like Trash Can Man.
A dream with Faces of Death narration.

There's ice in my shower
and I've my dead Daddy's trousers
Got my dead Daddy's trousers to put on.

And I feel like a victim,
but it doesn't seem to matter.
We all live like strangers caught within
the confines of his charcoal grin.

© Sonja J. Johnston 29-Oct 2013