The Perfect Homicide

Bereft of footprints,
of Monsters and Men
Void of screams,
of movement within

No likelihood of loss or gain,
Much like Alfred Hitchcock’s
Strangers on a Train

No sight of a weapon,
Not a hair out of place
A murderer’s heaven,
An ever changing face

Etched on the face of the dead
No sign of injury,
Except a whack on the head

A viable alibi,
The possibilities are endless
A witness shy,
The other, knocked senseless

Not a single clue,
Or a resounding cry
Not a single lead,
The Perfect Homicide.


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