The Serial Killer

The Serial Killer

He walked the night in steady steps,

a shadow moving through the streets,

and though the world around him slept,

the darkness knew his name by heart.

His calm was colder than the air,

a silence pressed against his skin,

and every corner seemed to watch,

as though it feared the things he held.

No sound betrayed the thoughts he kept,

no hint of what his mind contained,

yet something in his quiet stance,

spoke louder than a raging storm.

He passed beneath the fading moon,

with eyes that never flinched or shook,

and all the stories left unsaid,

hung heavy in the path he took.

The night became his closest friend,

it hid the secrets he had made,

and wrapped him in its shadowed cloak,

as if to shield the world from him.

Yet still the whispers followed close,

they drifted through the city’s spine,

of strangers lost without a trace,

and footsteps left in silent lanes.

The dawn would rise and wash the streets,

but never scrub the fear he brought,

for every time the morning shone,

another tale was left untold.

No one could name the face they feared,

for he was just a passing man,

yet those who felt him in the dark,

knew evil walked behind his eyes.