The aroma was sweet and catchy.
Of fresh blood and drained sweat,
Of broken steel and edged cutlery.
There was rejuvenation in the tense mood,
A sparkle of hope,
Light in darkness.
The weapon in hand was still fresh with blood,
The stained sheets an evidence of the struggle,
She told the court she was insane,
She said he was a mole,
Treated her like a shoe sole,
Drained her marriage in a hole.
She pointed an accusing finger at him,
Labelled him a pimp hidden in a church collar.
They chose to listen to her,
To the silent triumphs in her head.
They overlooked the guilt in her eyes,
The fear in her trembling voice,
Claimed as a product of trauma.
They forgot the blood of the slain human,
They forgot the huge crime of murder against her,
And shifted the blame to his dead soul.
Walked to freedom,
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