Cover Picture

Dirty Little Deeds

in Literature

The morning sun once sharp as blades,

outside the courtroom window

weakens and fades,

giving way to the afternoon shades,

as the drama would coat,

six hours brought only a note

from the jury foreman,

hopelessly deadlocked,

the judge’s eyes cocked,

raw doubt stuck in their throats,

and the truth floats,

as the angry voice

of the lead detective shouted out

vulgar words of his choice,

what’s the legal system for?

The lead detective swallowed hard,

and retreated into the corridor,

as he paced back and forth

on the courthouse’s marble floor,

in a smoldering rage,

like an animal in a cage,

he gave them all they needed,

page for page,

an eyewitness, fingerprints,

a jailhouse confession,

but what he got back

was a false impression,

a compromise here

should never meet,

guilty, he goes to prison,

and in there he’ll feel the heat,

not guilty,

he goes back out on the street,

a serial killer has needs,

he’ll go back to doing his

dirty little deeds.

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