Freaky

There are times,
When the bells chime,
It’s midnight, as you sit
tight.

The moonlight spills,
The cold wind chills,
The landscape swallowed in
a swarthy still.

Sounds erupt,
It’s so abrupt,
A streetlamp flickers, the
atmosphere thicker.

Under the lamp,
Masked Murder stands,
Crimson dripping down his
gun held hand.

Heart lodged in your throat,
Forehead bloat,
Praying to God in high-
strung notes.

When a simple sigh,
Triggers a bullet fly,
Piercing your soul, knowing
you would never grow old.

A thousand silver bullets,
Like glass shattering
mallets,
As he whispers:

Good night,
It was so fun,
Hope I meet your friends,
little one.