Confession Of a Murderer

Sit in the box,

Wooden slats built by hand,

Mesh grid talks,

With the voice of a righteous man.

"Hello my son",

Silence,

"What is it you've done?",

Violence.

Stare at the carpet,

It's RED,

Colour with which your hands are matted,

He's DEAD.

You seek redemption,

For this act,

But such contemption,

Deserves no slack.

"There is blood on my hands,

Of my wifes secret lover",

Hear him stand,

"This should be more private".

But before you can move,

You slit your wrists,

You once learned to love,

But now can't forget.

As world darkens,

And flames greet your sight,

This is hell,

But you being here is right.