This poem was composed after a slow reading of Green River, Running Red by Ann Rule.

When his dark side prevailed,
he'd lose his ability to brake. An inner
rage pushed him hard to hunt,
to find, to entice then to slay.
He was equal to God practically.
He was no longer the academically
inferior runt he'd been during
those torturous school days. A bit
of the world's precious power at last
lay in the palms of his hands--belonged
just to him. He was now a decider--an
important one regarding when, where,
who and how. He was now a god in the
local copses and forests, alongside the
Green River, in vacant lots, ballpark edges
and weed patches. Familiarity with his
home turf, coupled with his dark side,
created that god. Or that monster, for
nearly fifty documented victims qualified
him to wear such a freakish label. Fifty
young, documented females who, because
of a lack of various preventative factors
at play, ran into the wrong god--came upon
this one not of redemption but of a fierce,
determined destruction. Maybe today he's
still a decider, but the what has now been
drastically reduced. For which one can
thank the real God--the One of might and
redemption.