“So tell me, did you kill her?”
“You doubt my innocence?”
“I’ve known you for a long time,
And certain things make sense.”
“Like what? You judge me harshly.”
“No, I just understand:
She caused you grief and sorrow,
And you’re a hurting man.”
“But, still, to think I’d kill her —
That seems a drastic act.
I could not stand much more, but
Other ways can deal with that.”
“But other ways are not sure,
Could leave you open wide
For further persecution
If she came back to your side.
“Besides, I saw the blood stains,
And they your secrets tell.
And then I found the knife that
You thought you’d hidd’n so well.”
“I see … Well, that quite grieves me
Because you’ve been my friend;
Alas, I have no other choice:
So your life, too, must end.”
“A second murder? No way;
Your guilt soon all would guess.”
“Not once they read your own note
In which you will confess.”
“You cannot make me do it.
I’ll never write the note.”
“No need. I’ll type it neatly
Once I have slit your throat.”
The moral of this story
Quite easily could be
That one who learns dire secrets
Should maintain secrecy.
(Not my usual poetry, but sometimes you just need to get out of the box.)