Murdered
Murder, she wrote in coloured pencil
angels cried nothing but time abides
where winds knock upon the window
and there's no place left to hide
So, don't you turn away just yet,
for the crow has not begun to fly
and the rum still hasn't gone dry
Read, were splatters on the wall
chatters chirped and crawled
winters wept wonders called
Roses shone a solemn tone
and those whispers all just went away
*Inspired by Arthur Vaso's flower series*
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017
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