Writing a poem is like committing a crime

At least that’s what it feels like,

Most of the time!

 

The poem was found at the back of a drawer.

It lay, disregarded, lifeless and moribund.

Foul play was suspected, but who was to blame?

The suspect's motives, opportunity and means

All had to be carefully inspected!

 

Do we detect a motive here?

A reason for putting pen to paper.

Was this an instinctive crime of passion

Or a planned, deliberate, premeditated ode?

Was there, dear reader, malice aforethought?

Or was it whimsical free verse, produced a la mode?

 

So, what can be deduced from the scene of the crime?

Words were the weapons this criminal used.

Quite evidently.

Words were spattered everywhere!

A violent assault had clearly occurred,

But can we identify the fatal word?

Which specific expression brought about

This poem’s sad demise? Did the stark choice

Of imagery induce a terminal surprise.

Was the poem bludgeoned to death

By an overblown analogy

Or was the death of this poem more gradual,

Incrementally painful and slow.

 

The criminal poet had plenty of time

On his hands.

He had ample opportunity, then, to murder

This innocent poem before leaving the scene,

Unseen!

 

Reviewing the evidence in the cold light of day,

What can the literary super sleuth say,

Without any fingerprints or DNA?

“This looks like the work of a bungling amateur,

Crucially, interrupted in the middle of his flow!”

But without Doctor Watson

And Sherlock Holmes,

We will never really know!