Site Title

It's when killings become murder
That they find a suitable victim:
A stooped silhouette, faceless shadow;
From their midst yet unknown.
Like childhood part of a whole,
Yet too painful.
A burning recollection of an image 
Impressed upon their collective memory.
Tearful as early morning meadows,
As rain drops turned into black hailstones.
Painful yet undiagnosed this source of death,
Known yet well hidden from our sight,
Keeps popping up like some springtime buds 
Blossoming outside, out of reach.
 
And it is then that the killer strikes;
And it is murder. 
 
Except that the victim is just
Another faceless silhouette.