Origins are such uncomfortable
cross examinations, but I bore it.
When did it really begin, let me see,
was it the ever waking thoughts
that walked a taught tightrope
between what was deemed acceptable
and written disdainful in nature,
the press could squeeze,
but it would not reveal my motives.
A silver tipped walking stick
with a hidden blade, it could be gripped
under the guise of normality,
concealed tight under the glimmer
of a beacon, warped
to draw in the unwary and innocent.
And the plots, those flawed diamonds
which to scratch across the surface
of the good, the weak, the noble minded,
fine lines; blood notes that left no trace
except for a steady, educated,
articulate hand.
A hand which wouldn’t shake at the guilt,
it was not in the repertoire any longer,
lain neatly under newspaper
to stain with the murders.
They knew naught except what was worth
a tantalisng read of scant clues, and
some suspicion they had the wrong perpetrator,
which I in the gallery knew indeed they did,
the only one here to smile.
