Poker Face

Could a butcher truly look so serene,

not one reveal his next intention

by any type of expression.

 

Silver flashes of the scalpel,

blood drips of the end,

while held in the air

by ashen withered hand,

dim light of single bulb

in the windowless basement

only reveals the bits of flesh

that lie on the filthy floor.

 

She can’t scream through her gag,

wrists bound behind her back

unable to move in that steel chair.

Ankles tied to its legs

fare feet buried under mass of intestines

with a couple of eyes balls on top.

 

No chance to beg,

would do any good,

already watch this maniac

behind that crimson stained surgeon’s mask

dismember two of her friends,

never imagined stepping onto

that old run down,

two-story gray Victorian home

for trick or treat

might end in this horror.

 

They heard it was evil,

occupied by a madman,

but that smell of chocolate

and carved pumpkins in the window,

lured them knock on the front door.

 

So sure that headless butler seen

hanging from the staircase

when the door opened by itself

had to be a trick,

only when the welcome mat

became a trapped door

it was too late to run.

 

The blade sliced off her ear,

then the man behind the mask,

dipped in fudge sauce

before he ate it.

 

His eyes were black coals,

breath hot and reeked of rotting flesh,

one smile revealed his yellow teeth.

 

Soon he would carve another snack

but leave his last victim alive,

for he truly would need a special entrée

to bake in the over for Thanksgiving.

 

It was hidden behind his calm portrait

which never showed any emotions,

softly he spoke a hint of hope

how she might yet be released,

though it was just a game,

yet it was not really a gamble

since he was a plastic surgeon

who just like to make Halloween masks

out of human faces.