More Lysol!

More Lysol!

I smell the fragrance of your hair
It lingers on each downward stair.
The smell of you I cannot bear,
So I spray Lysol in the air.

You came to me to say good-bye.
“Our love is dead!” said with a cry.
I raised my fist and let it fly.
I didn’t mean for you to die.

You fell upon the cold hard floor.
I raised my fist to hit once more,
But blood showed on the dress you wore,
And then I saw you breathed no more.

I buried you beneath the ground
Back in the woods not to be found.
The trees stood witness all around
They hid your final resting mound.

But though your body lies at rest
With heavy dirt upon your breast,
The smell of you has me obsessed,
I clean as though a soul possessed.

I smell the fragrance of your hair
It lingers on each downward stair.
The smell of you I cannot bear,
I spray more Lysol in the air.


This poem is a work of fiction. There is no connection to any real events or people. I wrote it for a suggested prompt 'fragrance of your hair', though I don't quite think this is what they had in mind.


* Iambic tetrameter with an aaaa rhyme scheme.