The dark hour.`

It was the twenty-first hour of the day,
She was eating dinner her own way.
There was her five year old son,
getting some drawing done.

She heard a screech of pain,
she did think that was quite lame.
Her huge mansion she crossed to get to her room,
the night as she describes,
the night of the full moon.

She saw a shocking sight,
she didn't know the reaction right.
There she saw her dead husband,
she got a chill down her spine,
a lot like extremely cold wind.

Dead and cold he laid,
his throat was slit with a sharp blade.
Blood spattered across his face,
the blood was getting on to her white dress,
with the eccentric white lace.

Slowly a tear drop fell,
it seemed as if she just entered hell.
Then she saw her son,
with daddy her just wanted to have some fun.
He hugged his mom so tight,
the poor boy was in such a fright.

It was the speck of the second
since their lives changed,
she became a widow pained.
Her son had became a fatherless child,
poor boy, he was so mild.

The next hour as we know,
she and her sons heads low in sorrow.
Police and detectives everywhere,
so much pain they had to bear.

Did the killer even think for a second?
The lives he had changed an hour ago,
while they were eating their bacon and salad in a row.
This grief may never be forgotten,
Alas the twenty- second hour in the middle of Manhattan.


(Picture taken from the net.
By-Elizabeth Blauvelt - Galena High School.)