by Nick Gisburne
Discovering a sliver of her skin,
A microscopic fragment, overlooked,
Prepared, precise, impatient, we begin.
To seven strange devices it is hooked.
The moment of her death is quickly clear,
But this was not the fact we hoped to find.
We wait, for what we know will now appear,
The traces only murder leaves behind.
A chemical, a molecule, no more,
Confirms, condemns, identifies a man.
Beyond reproach, the power of the law
Protects him, so he kills, because he can.
However insignificant or small,
The truth, today, will make a monster fall.
