Silent is the sound of the voice with the cut throat,
The steady pitter patter of rain on the window
Compliments the grotesque dripping of blood and water
From fingertips recently grown cold.
Effortless happy whistling resounds off the walls,
The aftermath perhaps, to an orchestra of destruction.
Never dreaming that a postmortem of evidence
Could shatter solid security of hidden truths.
A visitor unknowingly invited treads heavily here,
The silent footsteps drown out the undrawn breath.
Movements of forgetfulness in triumph are ended
A fearful sense of dreaded awareness
Shrug off the superstitions to laugh
And clean up the monstrous mess
Yet though the abandoned shell is left behind,
The ghost lives on,
And forgiveness dies.