Echos of laughter drifting from the hallways of her mind,

Driven by sences she could never find.

Inviting ghosts to do thier regualar haunting.

What she calls music is thier grumsome taunting.

Realising things she's known all long.

Desiding to finally join thier song.

Bleating loud a voice so clear.

The echo's only sounding as screams of fear.

Scribble down letters slowly forming the words,

Just like the rest fading into the herds.

Meanless it seems to become this rythm.

Is it all just to kill this deadly spare time?

Answers can only be found in a clueless writer.

So go ahead and pleal back the layered heart of this fighter.

You may look though i warn you probally won't like what you see,

This coded mind with a long forgotten key.

Now may the clock strike twelve and this false hope be devoured.

For it will be the last time i taste its flavor of blood that is soured.

Now i'll leave you to ponder this poem that would hopefully make Poe proud.

Maybe someone will hear my message ring out loud.