It’s the smell you notice first,
Along with the silence.
Hot copper has that smell,
Low, pungent, ominous;
BLOOD, and lots of it.
Everyone is quiet, speaking in whispers,
As if the dead are just asleep
And will be upset if you
Awaken them from their justly nap.
Blood, thick, red, flowing, sticky,
Turning brown as it dries, and
Always the smell of hot copper.
Here it flowed, and here it dripped,
A spurt over here, and a mist against
The wall near where he stood
When he chose to end it all.
The gun upon the floor, discarded now
That it’s no longer needed. The sick
Thoughts that eke their way into
The dark recesses of an uncomprehending
Mind that can analyze
The scene. Taking pictures,
Checking angles, the position of the
Body, while ignoring the roach,
Crawling under the head of upturned
Lifeless eyes, leaving tiny
Red trails of blood as it
Scurries away unmolested.
Wondering who will squint to
Take the pictures, when your
Time also comes. And always
The smell of hot copper.