A spider crawls across a corpse,
Butterflies flit across the sky,
And the body of a girl lies
But she won’t wake, no matter how hard you try.

A red slit engraved in her neck
And a pool of black around her head
Could be the only evidence of the struggle
That left Adelaide for dead.

Somewhere far in a home in the city
Lies a man on a bed with a knife.
He is of particular interest
For his hand had taken her life.

Not his hand, but the blade, plunged forward
And buried itself in her skin
And slashed angry marks of lust and hurt,
All on a drunken whim.

For he had dragged her out to the forest
Amidst the cobwebs, leaves and the night
To rid himself of the burden she was;
She was a wrong to be made right.

She had struggled on the way out,
She had claimed that she hadn’t seen
He didn’t believe her, he wired her shut
To prevent her from giving a scream.

And before she had seen him writhing
In their bed, with someone not her.
He knows that she knew of his sinning,
So, really, the murder was fair.

But, murder? What murder? He’s done nothing of the sort!
There’s no fingerprints to prove it!
And a weapon? It’s gone, if it ever was here…
(The police, he thinks, will believe any shit…)

And a spider crawls across a corpse
And butterflies cover the sun
And of sweet, innocent Adelaide…
A trace – none.

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