The Art Of Murder

The days of the week lined up like buckets,imgres
Ready to catch whatever fell in,
As I think back to that fateful day,
When all of it did begin.

With every benign conversation,
So even in my tone,
But yet behind it a silent voice screaming,
To remind me of what I’ve done.

My hands type on the computer,
A task that’s so familiar,
So innocently they cook, they clean,
Could they be that of a killer?

And when I question my reasoning,
Perhaps morbid, perhaps thrilling,
Simply to create a singular moment in which,
So perfect was the killing.

Yet tender and kind I am and remain,
To everyone in sight,
As they look at me without suspicion I think,
Oh no, not you, not tonight.

The rope so innocently used,
To bind up blankets, they never suspect,
Memories of the day I took his life,
Tightening it round his neck.

But is any murder perfect?
Is there any reward to be won?
Sometimes I just want to want to scream, “It was me!”
Escape the nightmare and be done.

Yet with every ring of the telephone,
With every knock on the door I pray,
That whatever falls in, those buckets will catch,
But they won’t catch me, not today.

 

22 thoughts on “The Art Of Murder

  1. So then Marissa you have committed in essence ‘the perfect murder’. Only discovered by poetical admission – I shall have to report this to the appropriate authorities sadly. I mean who would have thought it of you! That aside this was a bloody fine read!

  2. A haunted soul you certainly must be…..and yet you write so beautifully! I’m certain it just cannot be….I hope you won’t make a liar of me!

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