by Raymond Towers
Stepping into somebody else's nightmare,
I fathom the blood streaked walls
and take in the smell of rot, of mildew, of decay.
No light bulbs left in their sockets,
as if to glorify the darkest of portraits.
There is a staircase, however,
and by ascending its height
my footsteps draw its groans and creaks,
and just past its precipice I find
the victim's bedroom.
On the floor by the bed,
sprawling as if the result of a clumsy fall,
is the corpse. A female this time,
Hispanic, curly haired and light skinned,
her skin much paler due to the sharp contrast of death.
A gold stud adorns her nose,
and her eyes, so clear and green,
oblivious to the fact that they will never see again.
She was pretty, I observe, and as the coroner
steps from the room, leaving us alone,
I briefly place a fingertip on her pallid lips,
and trace their cold outline.
Her humanity reduced to a mere statistic,
she'll go down as victim number two.