Snitch.

Tell me lies,
tell me who dies
at the end lets pretend I don't know.
Close the door,
you know the score,
curtains pulled,
lights on dim,
diminished,
and impoverished within.
Dark as pitch,
a curtain twitch,
from the witch across the road,
emboldened,
I fold the paper of faces,
with tight gestures,
raptures and embraces,
from mumbled said graces,
adorn,
the torn,
withdrawn,
incomplete sketch of a wretch.