Bloodied hands wept as their master forced them to move.
Strike by strike they fell, a serial killer’s enemies are unknowing,
Until their final breath when they see the flash of an axe,
With bloodied hands leaking fluid, pouring onto the ground,
Blood mixing in with the dirt.

Freedom, they wished to see. They were meant for creation,
They weren’t meant for this mess, this killer.
These hands were meant for discovery of ideas,
Whether art, or writing, they were dejected.
As they lopped off another head with their axe, they wailed.

Accepting of their fate, they soon stilled,
Innocent victims of a cruel mind,
Used as tools to achieve a bad end, a bloody end.
These hands weren’t meant for blood, nor were the women they killed
But they both were worn out before their time, the madman cares for neither.