Dear Investigators (Unidentified III)

Dear Investigators, I lay here waiting to be discovered, you see,

you have already wasted the golden hours in your search for me.

everyone knows the first precious hours are crucial for a live recovery,

but here I lay, drained of life, where mind, body and soul have departed me.

I'm more than missing, and I'm more than slain,

someone out there loves me enough to make a positive claim.

I'm more than a decedent, more than my murdered frame,

My life was probably snuffed out before the missing posters were even made,

those pivotal hours seem an unfair trade.

Mr. Investigators, come with your rubber gloves and your evidence bags,

find the smallest clue, fibers and the one strand of hair, let my remains speak for me

and remove my eternal gag.

I know the hearts of law enforcement are hardened, but I know that my lifeless

remains are like a swift kick in the gut,

another lost child, now surrounded by officials, taking pictures and shrouding me

with a tented hut.

I wish I could tell you, Mr Investigators who did this to me, but my voice is silenced,

so now the task is yours, to figure out the root of this homicidal violence.

Mr Investigators, in all your wisdom, I didn't always appear this way,

I used to be a valued, living person, all hope for a full life gone astray.

I never wanted to be a statistic; another slaughtered like cattle,

yet here I am, the dishonored, disrespected and I am defeated in the battle.

The man who did this to me will have scratches and bites and a dehydrated heart,

and I am the demonstration of his issues, his depravity, repugnance that I didn't

volunteer to be a part.

On the gurney now, I am transfered to the morgue for autopsy and I am given a

numbered tag on my toe,

Organs weighed, blood taken, bodily fluids analyzed, my body examined and my

death is ruled a homicide; my new name, Jane Doe.

©2005 Karen Seith