No blood on the knife,
Not a soul who saw it,
No DNA on the body,
Who possibly could've done it?
They've got their heads all over,
Looking in all the wrong places,
But I've studied this scene from my window,
And I know everyone's faces.
The woman down the street
Who keeps her composure,
Is losing her marbles.
They're scattered all over.
I didn't hear a peep.
I didn't see a shadow,
But I know it's her,
By the way she wallows.
The glances at her hands,
Stray to where he was found.
She doesn't feel bad.
She buried that hatchet deep into the ground.
Walking all over it,
Like nobody knows.
Ms. Crimson, Ms. Crimson,
You are not alone.
I know your secret.
I know who you are.
I promise I'll keep it,
Even from the stars.
About the Creator
Cait
Mainly writing about surreal places and times, focusing on distorted fragments of reality. However, here and there you might find a few miscellaneous topics like love, life/death, healing, etc. Mostly comes as poems, but not always.
A Love Forboding
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi2 days ago in Fiction
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