The face was smashed, cracked

and damaged from where

it had hit the floor with a mighty,

sickening thud, it still held life though,

radiating through the near dark

of the stairs where it lay, though how long

before it drained out,

private phone numbers

mixing and congealing

with internet browsing history

and flirty text messages

to her husband, the see you later hun’s

and the inevitable three xxxs,

the phone had fallen

or had it been pushed,

as the face drained of its icons

and the cracks filled with splintered

London numbers, a final motion,

no damned accused, no finger pointing,

just a scene of horrified silent scream

etched on her own face at the top of the stairs,

hidden by the half dark and witness silenced.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018