Spooky

Screams that echo, that scar, but no longer sound.

Pulses beat, but are drowned out by blood stained hands.

On that ledge, I look down, daring myself to fall. From my perch,

Only I see the cries that fill the alleys, only I get the chance to ask myself why? But then again, why breathe down the backs of unsuspecting, stained souls?

Knives rise, but don't deliver, clattering on on ground undeserving of any care or notice, owners already, whisked away, by their own urge to hurry.

Yells rise, thieves race, stopped in a hurry, by my cold, you'll-never-forget-it embrace.