The station clocktower was once peaceful,
Say the tolling of bells and far-off laughter of children.
This is a quiet place, says the single train stopped
At the station. On the ledge just above
The large clockface, drops of blue ice cream
Have melted into sticky puddles. Three puddles.
One puddle is nearly dry. Only two of the
Three were here recently, say the two popsicle sticks.
There was a struggle, says the scrap of thick
Black fabric, much too hot for anyone living nearby.
It happened only an hour or so ago, say the half-
Crusted drops of blood, the black and blonde hairs,
Cut, not torn out, agree. A man had come, but
Too late, say the fresh, angry chink in the
Ledge and the blood-free bright red hairs,
Ripped out in sadness.
More blood and black hair at the foot of the
Clocktower speak of her demise. Yet, there is
No body to bury, not even a scrap of
Clothing can be found. A lonely
Seashell is all that remains. Stumbling
Footprints tell of the attacker's own weakness.
He never wanted to be the one to end this, the
Regretful tears say, reflecting the beautiful red sunset.
A/N: Wrote this for school, based on some other poem I can't remember.