He walks into the garden.
An eerie night of a summer.
He sits by the bench, on the ground.
He is sweating.
An eerie night of a summer.
He sits by the bench, on the ground.
He is sweating.
He wipes it off with his sleeve.
He spits out a blob of agony.
He ties his knees with his bloody hands.
He puts his head down. He cries.
Weeps out his inconsolable morals.
He thinks. To himself.
Of the woman he just killed.
The woman’s pardon-seeking-eyes, fear-filled.
She was a daughter, a sister, a mother.
She was killed. Undeservedly.
The moonlight gleamed on the murderer’s bloody
hands and guilty body.
He stared into the shadow.
His shadow, that deviously stared back.
His shadow. It howled the sound of guilt.
Howled the wrongness.
His shadow. That spoke of what he did.
Spoke of what he shouldn’t have.
Shadows speak. His shadow spoke. It regretted.
His hand. That thrust the knife into his heart.
His hand. That thrust the knife into his heart.
His shadow. Cunningly. Stared.
Thank you for the help, Ninad.
Thank you for the help, Ninad.
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