“Spiteful words can hurt your feelings but silence breaks your heart.”
― C.S. Lewis
The detective on his rounds
Chances upon him, cold
And burnt, face-down in the pillow.
He flips through the forensics
And sees the story familiar:
A tale of lost love and tears.
He was drained of life drop by drop
Do you see the blood on the floor?
No signs of forced entry
He let the killer in
Through wide open doors,
Then was looted of all good and real:
The murderer left him
A hollow shell filled with dreams.
The officer soon finds her who did it
And snaps on the handcuffs
You’re under arrest.
As he shoves her in the car, says
You’ve killed the poor bastard,
He sleeps now, six feet under.
She protests, how could it be,
I haven’t even seen him in years.
Exactly, says the detective,
I’ll take that as a confession,
And he slams the door shut.
P.s: If you’re wondering about the Featured Image, it’s from the song “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley. It set the mood for writing this poem.