How was she feeling before it gusted in
across the murders committed by concrete?
Was she happy and articulate,
unsuspecting before her fatality?
Razor blades make dirty exhibits,
there are none here.
Was she washing dishes, laundering clothes?
It is absolutely vital.
Her goodbyes were exiting, tremulous, from her lips.
How was she? Examine the photographs.
There is the gleam of domesticity,
pure life contained within the casual clothes.
There is the gentle violet of evening,
and here, the mechanical expression she wore upon her face.
No death shadow is visible.
I notice she was empty as a forgotten jar.
Did she smile, confident as the bee before the sting?
She arranged her possessions
like the treasures of a pharaoh.
Her mouth snagged
around the questions she wanted to ask.
The tongue lay dormant, a small coward.
There was no shortage of home comfort.
The fire crackled richly in the grate,
the dust motes bobbed in the polished air.
There was a plush pastel sofa,
and here, the hollow where she sat.
How did it come to her?
Did it arrive slowly, or with sorrow?
Did it deliver a knife, or a gas?
It began with her heart,
riddling it like a worm in wood.
It wouldn't be kept waiting - a true lover.
It covered her face like a mask,
its fingers curling protectively -
little clinging ivy tendrils.
It consumed her, a determined flame,
loving her all the while.
Everything sucked into a glittering vacuum.
The inquiry will close.