• I am the last one standing.
    In the rear view mirror, you can still see me
    with lightless eyes,
    holding bated breath
    that will never come again.

    The rain is red today.
    Drops on the sidewalk whisper
    that this secret life of mine, now,
    is shared only by that faithless woman.
    The knife I carry.

    Your meaningless expression,
    painted in blood.
    The artist, a genius,
    cries for mercy.
    "Please, don't let this art stain my soul."

    The metal on metal screeching
    claws at our ears, I thought you could not hear.
    Threatening to drive me mad,
    or sane perhaps,
    if you choose to view it that way.

    I am the last one standing.
    The better man
    of two unequal men,
    and a harsh world, too cruel for you,
    and too kind for me.

    I am the last one standing.
    I would ask if anybody was listening,
    but I can see the truth
    in the way my footsteps echo, unanswered,
    and the beaded blood dripping
    from my blade, onto the rotting concrete,
    of my empty city
    in my abandoned world.