Childrens games

He comes to their house, without a peep.
He watches the little ones, while they sleep.
He lifts them out of their warm bed.
while their parents lay, still and dead.

They let out cries, they let out moans
For their parents, and their peaceful homes.
He silences them with his knife.
Taking away their last ounce of life.

Slicing and dicing off each part.
This is his world, this is his art.
He feeds off their terrible cries,
While looking into tear filled eyes.

He has no pity, he has no shame.
The kids are his toys, without a name.
Each one more pleasurable than the first.
Each task slowly quenching his dying thirst.

He works silently, humming a tune.
Anticipating, what shall come soon.
Each cut is perfect, each stitch in place.
While he works at a steady pace.

After hours of work, he is content.
Some pieces were kept, some pieces were sent.
Innocent people to their surprise,
may find tomorrow, a child's pair of eyes.

So at night keep your covers tucked up to your chin.
Don't bother with locks, he'll find a way in.
Just hope and pray you will wake up in your home.
Not in his work shop, because you won't be alone.

M.M