It’s time to gather the poor lady’s own perspective
here I go, to prison for a visit of dear old me,
a writer to dear old she, Eve, the murderer.
I sit in front her and my wrists are free of chains,
while hers are not as free
pretty, slender, faded and old
hard to conceive that she’s been indicted with first degree
of her husband that inhaled his last breath out of his neck
oh! what an unpleasant way to go
Though, there are no less painful ones from a weapon that’s a machete
She sits in front of me cold like the winter that barely comes
but a face bright red like the angry sunset that tends to stay
What is it are you to talk about? Is it not enough I’m dying every day with the outcome? or
you want to come down and play with the hag and her bloody machete?
I sit in front of her azure in the eyes and slick hair,
rough fingertips but perfectly adjusted tie
I’m Sebastian, a journalist. I’m to write about you. your life.
Barely about the murder but more about the strife
countless articles neglect that you were a mother before you were a wife
they neglected that your house got smaller within the years
as more people began to disappear
I’ll put the recorder in front and I promise I am here to hear and not to judge
This is going to be a series. Each post with a theme in the form of a poem! subscribe to get updated on the story!
The second part is set. Love and sanity
The Third part Loss and insanity
The fourth Pity