Murdered By My Own Shadow
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Cold misty clouds rise above the grates
The streets only illumination, tossing shadows like pennies
Faded street lamps at each end
The cold is biting, as I roll the collar over my neck
I received a call earlier that day
A new client, who insisted not to meet,
At my office
Just fine with me, my office scared its fair share
Of prospects away
So glancing at my watch I waited
Under the street lamp, I lit a ***
To pass the time
Where was the dame?
I was beginning to guess this was some kind of hoax
Worse still I was missing a poker game over at the Pig&Bath
The tube was a few blocks away, and sooner rather than later
I should part company with this particular street lamp of no desire
Not a soul in site, I decided I’d been played for a fool
A pretty voice, that will get ya every time
As I sauntered away looking bored in case anyone was watching
I heard the click of my own shoes on concrete
I also heard an echo?
Was I being followed?
I crossed to the other side somewhat on edge
I had enough blokes that didn’t see my good side
Not that I ever saw much either
I quickened my pace
Whoever was behind seemed to quicken their pace
I turned the corner and now in a very fast walk
Ran for the main street, passing an alley that had seen better days
Something or someone grabbed at my trench coat
All of a sudden, here I am, pulled into a dark alley
I feel the punches, and what seems like a pipe
Hitting me repeatedly, yet I see no one
I cover my head, and try to keep silent
No use humoring this lug with the pleasure of my pain
On the ground, I feel the kicks into my ribs
Blood starts to spill from my mouth,
Or who knows, maybe my nose
No concern of mine
As I wont have much of a face after this brutal feast
I hear the faint wisps and grunts, as I lay wounded
Whoever did this sure fancies himself a professional
I would like to say more, but I think is time for dreamland
No idea if I am unconscious, dead or dreaming
In a puddle of my own blood
I lie, in agony looking above at a strange face
My god, its my shadow!
He spits on me in disgust
Laughing, he says "finally I am free of you"
You rotten son of a Birch tree
At that he parts, off he goes to the land of the living
Walking away with some woman that I feel I should know
They laugh together, as I lie inside my own turmoil
The garbage pickup at dawn
Will dispose of my bones and dreams
Some PI I turned out to be
Murdered by my own shadow
Copyright © Arthur Vaso | Year Posted 2015
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