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by Beckyl
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Dark · #1857266
My first published work: A Detective's thoughts about a victim.
The Detective

This woman, eyes like an owl,
looking to me for justice.
Doing my job, ma'am,
prying you open with skillful questions,
tools well worn.

Another life dropped,
from the top of this evil night
and shattered.

She shakes and weeps
like a lost, exhausted child;
slender arms cradling
her torn body.

This woman is strong,
that's what her mother said.
I see only this fragile orchid,
her tears, a splintered river
now spent and dusty.

My keen men;
starred and holstered
ravage her shadowed spaces with lanterns,
peering into places where midnight slumbers.

Where only gentle moonbeams are welcome.

Will we find the one
taken from her?
A detective can never promise.

My heart is dislodged from its
comfortable place of knowing
what to say.

My words feel awkward,
clumsy in my mind.
No way to query further without
doing more damage.

I fear this broken woman is
forever changed.

This stabbing fear will steal her
merry, loving heart.
Bury it beneath a cloak of

I could not protect her,
I have given service to no one.

© Copyright 2012 Beckyl (beckyl at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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