carnage

morning light, bodies lay about,
all sexes, ages, ethnic types,
faces contorted, eyes fixed,
sunlight glints off cold irises.
chests slashed and hearts ripped out,
blood stains clothes, beds and pavement.
young women dead who ran the night
in short dresses or tight blue jeans,
dancing, drinking in trendy bars,
giving head in the front seat of cars;
young men with bad manners, good dreams,
flat tummies, thin beards, baggy pants,
all less than hoped but more than seems-
planning, scheming, seeking meaning;

lawyers, stockbrokers, doctors, clerks,
caught in last throes of being jerks,
trying to find their beginnings
or painting a finishing touch;
couples at movies or at lunch,
or lying naked in moist beds,
trying to bring back what they had,
sorting out the lives they had led -
all victims of some devil -
“what is it that did this thing?”
the cop asks in true bafflement.
the old detective sighs and says,
“love is a serial killer,
love is the monster that eats our hearts.”