Ingredients for…

“A surprise,”
he had said
over the phone
while I was rushing
to finish my tasks.

Nervously I stand
now, adjusting my tie
as I knock.
Once, twice, three times,
and the door creaks open.
Silence
except for the ping, ping, ping
of the dripping faucet
coming from that room.

Sucking my breath,
I push it open
as a white towel
falls on my shoe.

Through the flickering
overhead lights,
I see a figure.
His arm drapes
over the rim.

Below the ragged slits
of his wrist –
a feathered pen
soaked in puddles
of blood,
broken glass,
with whiskey
leaking out.
Pills scatter
the floor.

He looks at me,
with open eyes,
not with love,
nor vengeance,
nor pride,
I don’t know with what,
and I don’t know why,
so I close them.

He looks like Marat,
naked,
in a bathtrub
of floating
petals.

Death of Marat

A piece of paper
falls in my grasp,
written in blood,
poem of his life.

————————————————————

This was a poem I wrote a while back and I decided to post this piece tonight since my mind is fresh with a sense of “mystery,” as my friends and I participated in a Murder Mystery Dinner Party last night.  I hope you enjoyed it!

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