Your fingerprints were all around the room,

Giving me evidence that you’re involved,

For you are deceptive and are in doom,

Yet the murder case is still far from solved.

The impure body lays in silence,

Predisposed there like a deceased beached whale,

Showing a life that has suffered violence,

An experience surpassing impale.

The police are mystified by the case,

So are the family members and friends,

Since they are in mourning from the disgrace,

And will be until this brutal case ends.

You’re the one with neglected attention,

For you are the one who caused this tension.

There’s something hiding underneath my bed,

It never ever shows it’s actual shape,

But even though it looks dead, smells of lead,

I will never ever let it escape.

It always often puts me back to sleep,

Ignoring the fact it haunts my dreaming.

It screeches and bellows, grumbles and weeps,

For it’s a soul that leaves me in screaming.

It is like a frequently changing clock,

A clock that has multiple varied traits.

It is joyous, sorrowful and can rock,

Yet it dictates, frustrates and illustrates

The reason for its master creation,

And why it’s part of imagination…

We are a mere feather in history,

For we are a sheer spectacle of dust,

A thing in a world full of mystery,

Like the plants and animals on Earth’s crust.

Since time began, we have loved and hated,

Taken scads of remorse for our actions,

And have created and have awaited,

The time for world peace and satisfactions.

Today, we live in a world of ambit,

Just populace who roam the Earth’s expanse,

Seeking to find answers and inhabit,

The reason for our birth and circumstance.

Of the single things that challenge our clues,

Our origins and alpha are askew.