Nicolas Marrara - The Murderer

The Murderer

A wanted man he was,
A man without principle,
A man whom had a world of trouble
Tied around his neck,
Without a single blade to cut it.

He was a man of legend under the hill,
A titan of suspicion and fear,
55 was his number all told.

Now, a man so changed by his evils,
Not even his mother, had she been alive,
Could have recognized him,

40 years later his name,
which resounded so well in the back alleys,
Is no more than a gentle hush of silence.

In towns he stays clear,
For fear of that terrifying question,
“What is your name? Where do you come from? ”
It was always these two questions that made him freeze.

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t want to tell them,
about the men he did in,
Or about the people he knew,
Or the women he’d slept with.
Oh no, to him that would be satisfying.

But to tell them of his regrets,
To tell his sorrows,
Or to give his name,
When all that was needed in the olden days,
was a look at his face.

Maybe it was his tattered clothes,
Or maybe his gray beard,
Or perhaps it was his new success,
This time with rats, His new bag!
Haven’t you heard?
558, a new record,
All told.

Nicolas Marrara

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