PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

After midnight, when even prostitutes dare not traverse,

Down long winding alleyways, mysterious things occur:

The fog lifting by midmorning in a back alley in London

Coppers swarmed like flies on a new kill on the Savannah.

“This one knew him,” he deduced while stoking his chin;

Aghast as cold blood coagulated on the side of her mouth

Watson, having been this way before, queried, “Overkill?

Detached Sherlock lifted her blouse, whispered, “Aha.”