Beneath the Forgotten Roses

by ANTHONY HAYES

As I walk through the grey mist of night
I come across a bed of roses,
brittle with a dark essence.

Each one slowly crumbling to the rough earth,
below, as I look up I see
an old grey stone.

I lift my frost bitten hands and wipe away
the years of decay; my eyes open wide
to a small engravement –

R.I.P

Was killed by hanging for the murder of
thirty four women on 2 August 1912

Here lies Dave Thompson Jr.

As I read the name, my life flashes before
my eyes; it’s been one hundred years
since I killed them.

Tomorrow my grave will be gone,

but no one will ever forget the horror,
that lives beneath
the forgotten roses

merdivinity

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