The Murder of Violet Gold

This was written in 2014. I don’t remember the context. I suspect my motivation was something like “Hey! I want to write something that rhymes!”

The Murder of Violet Gold

It all comes down to what you might believe,
If someone were to speak at the right time,
A nudge to help your stricken mind conceive
A notion which I think you’ll find sublime:
That which you thought you saw was never real.
A trick of light, at best. Madness, at worst.
Synaptic firing line shot to conceal
The truth of what you saw tonight, immersed,
As we both were, in horror as she dripped
Her ruby blood upon the kitchen floor.
In anguish as our dear, sweet friend fast-slipped,
With screams and shock, the threshold of death’s door.
It was not I who held the bloody blade!
The killer must have been our dear friend’s maid!

The killer must have been our dear friend’s maid!
I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again:
She hated how our lovely friend displayed
The wealth she’d earned through labor, sweat, and pain!
While she, herself, had nothing much to show
For all the years she’s given Mrs. Gold.
She doesn’t even have a home, you know?
She has no car to drive, nor hand to hold!
It’s her, I’m sure, with whom the blame must lay.
For who else here would kill sweet Violet?
And though I’ll justify it in no way —
The mistress stabbed and killed by her own pet —
It’s not so hard to see how envy bleeds
When work alone won’t meet one’s basic needs!

When work alone won’t meet one’s basic needs!
We’ve all been there, now, haven’t we, old pal?
While every dream she dares to dream succeeds.
Hey, who could help but envy that old gal?
It isn’t disrespect! It’s said with love!
You know she’s had my heart since we were young!
And no, those are not blood drops on my glove!
You keep your peace unless you’d see me hung!
I loved her near as much as I love you!
It’s not the sort of love that money buys.
And, dearest friend, I know what we should do.
You must believe my words and not your eyes.
For when you think about the wealth we’ve got,
It’s plain to see we blame the one who’s not.

Author: Sharonda Woodfin

Lives, cooks, studies, draws, reads and writes in Anaheim, California, with her remarkably patient wife and one tiny dog. Backs blue. #AsOne

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