The Perfect Crime

By: Claire Kroening

The perfect crime wasn't written in war-torn London pages. It wasn't foretold in the hands of smoke-dreamt violin strings, shallow hedges. Where 5pm light struck bell tower skies; where woodcutters clawed at webbed wisteria-films. No, the perfect crime wasn't emboldened in fictional qualms. 

The perfect crime was slewn by the riches. In the whisk of golden ages, covered in dawn-mattened empty promises night forgot to grasp. The perfect crime thread vast cotton soils, littered with solvent eulogies. Thus, the world unfolds at the hands of the former; a blunder ablaze none threatened to recover. 

Bridges burned, skewed from fibers prosperity couldn't consume. Marble brickings paved histories long-deepened bones. The perfect crime festers in front of chins hung low. Repercussions left faux saviors to sow. Only the captured would vanish, caught in a crossfire never asked. The perfect crime wasn't written in war-torn London pages; it was rhymed to the herd in broad daylight.