So silently he creeps up the alley-way,
so secretive, so mobile yet so conspicuous.
The cheerful morning, the bright sun-
      the lovely whispers of kindness entices him close.
He steps forward, meeting the test.
There are people born different, not genes not looks-
       rather, they are like spirits.
He stands there, but he isn't quite there.
White noise-
       can we really hear them?
An aura, we can feel them,
       magnetism, we can sense them.
Made singular, they slither amongst us,
like a panther, they stalk us.
Tailing our trail, these people smell blood,
        not exactly that, they bring blood.
No damned reasons.
Toying with a gun in his hand, he smiles.
The cheerful morning, the bright sun-
      the lovely whispers of kindness entices him close.
But inside, there is no sun, no kindness, no lovely whispers,
      only demons, and Judas and darkness.
He's the minion.
"There must be a reason", he screams-
      and fires off.
Bright light, a flash of clarity,
such contrast with his inner dimness.
"There isn't".
Some are just born different, maybe it's the genes,
maybe it's their looks.
They walk beside us, bearing the scars of iniquity.
They must exist,
       for they make us normal.
Normal is expressed as an inversion -
       a reflection of the anomalous.
We term it as psychosis,
       to them, it is normalcy.
What have I done?
Slowly, he pulled back the gun-
       someone falls to the ground.
White noises, that's what they hear.
What have.....
White noises, that's what the psychotic hears.
Or are they just outraged?