The bones of the
not yet murdered,
hurriedly re-dressed
by the hands of the guilty.
Creating a cloak of invisibility
that no one can see.

Whispered words of
the guilty liars,
drowned in their own
breathy stench.
To conceal the truth
that no one can hear.

Words once tearfully written
still undiscovered.
(for time cannot heal)
that only I can feel.

The reaper knocks,
One, two, three
and I ask he call again.
Maybe tomorrow,
but I don't know why.

Poetry by Kaydee.