In My Mind's Eye

Detective

An old house on Charing Cross,

Broken windows,

Unlocked door,

Jagged rocks strewn across the floor,

Could only be a sign of,

Vindictive vandalism,

Or is it intended entry?

Specks of mud smeared on the carpet,

A path leading towards the master bedroom,

Could only be the footprints of someone,

Snuck in through the back door by the garden.

But something,

Something, indeed,

Does not make sense, my dear.

For what criminal would do his work so sloppily?

Almost as if he wished to be caught...

For what's the use of steeping yourself in enigma,

If no one bothers to figure you out?

What's the use of camouflaging yourself in code,

If no one bothers to decipher you?

What could come of masquerading as a murderer,

If no one cares to look for the body?

If there's anything I've learned in this retched business,

It's to never trust a man with a mustache,

And always,

For the love of God,

Always,

Check the closets.

I know your secret, you fool!

I know why you're here, dead,

With the dust as your only blanket,

With that tainted stream of blood,

So nonchalantly gushing from your nose,

The only color in your face.

I know why you've been chosen!

So dangerously selected in your murderer's psychotic lottery...

For, believe it or not, these things don't happen randomly.

And I never was one to attribute occurrences to coincidence,

As lazy as a quality that is.

No!

No, my dear skeletal friend!

It's simply a matter of tangible evidence,

That which can be seen out of every side of one's peripheral vision,

And linked together neatly,

Like the blood-splattered jigsaw puzzle life is.

A window, left open so carelessly,

Curtains billowing in the midnight breeze.

A ceramic pot of indigo orchids,

As inky as the night sky,

Fallen off the nightstand,

Pot cracked right down the middle, and,

Why, the rug...

The rug...

Is still moist with the dew of the orchid's roots.

Well, my dearest deceased friend,

It seems I'll be joining you in your repose soon enough,

For apparently the killer,

Just happens,

To be hiding...

Right behind that door.