Like a silent dark angel,
A fluttering of the wings,
Against the inner linings of the mind,
A sense of suspicion you think.
Benefit of the doubt,
You know you want to give,
But something is not right,
The rest, it just doesn’t fit in.
What is this nagging feeling,
Yes suspicion, a teasing of what-ifs,
Can it be him for certain? Or not?,
You can’t ask directly from him.
You can’t, you don’t have the evidence,
But you have the awkwardness,
A vague slip of a tongue from him,
In two separate conversations.
You still don’t know why,
You can’t go to sleep,
Till you find out,
Who is behind all this.
It eats through the mid-brain,
Till you can’t take it anymore,
And one of these days,
You will blurt it out once more.
And accuse the man who you suspect,
Whether he stole, cheated or bribed,
You just know that it is him at times,
You let your thoughts decide.
Suspicion with no facts,
The semi-fictitious story in the mind,
A drama it produces and narrates,
So guilty he be, when you find.
To justify your suspicion,
You needed a good old ploy,
It’s your mind that created,
In need of a closure, not to decoy.
The chain of events of misfortune,
The people who added hay to the fire,
You needed to prove them wrong,
That you are not here to conspire.
Now let me sleep you say,
You arrest the suspicion in a jail,
Jail of the mind that entraps the worst,
Of the appalling curiosity tightly nailed.
A man who would have done it all,
Or perhaps not,
You may never know, for he is dead,
So, what is this fuss after all.