Clockwork

By
I.
Tick-tock as I stare at the clock,
the minutes crawl by
and I'm left in the wake
of a disastrous mistake.
The blood on my hands
and the corpse by my side.
The knife swiped clean
and hidden inside.
Inside where?
For what purpose?
Motive?
Questions they will ask.
Answers to which I know.
But I won't be around for that.
I'll be gone by then.
And so will the evidence...

II.
They gather around
feeling sorry for him.
Feeling sorry for themselves.
Do they know?
Will they ever know?
Should I say anything?
No. I won't. It would be obvious.
Still they skulk around gloomy and glum.
As if awaiting his return.
Only to later swarm into his home
like cockroaches.
Feeding on his death like scavengers.
They are no better than he...

III.
The coffin is laid into the ground.
Six feet deep.
Six feet under.
And slowly the sobbing guests leave the site.
Yet I remain
to finish what I started.
I will give them the weapon.
But it will be useless.
An ordinary kitchen knife
with no prints
will be of no use.
Sorry.
I walk around as they finish
pouring the soil and the dirt
on top of him.
On top of his already decaying cadaver.
On top of his decrepit soul.
Once they have left I return,
and stab the knife into the ground
careful of not placing prints on it.
I stab it into the ground
where the tombstone will go.
Where he will lay eternally.
With the clock ticking by the minutes.
The hours.
The years.
Tick-tock in his head.
Constantly.
And I shall go free...





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