The inner city sky is set ablaze by the firefly orbs held within/
Quiet strangled the streets/
Only faint echoes of automotive ghosts wail in the distance/
One can smell it, the sky will cry soon/
That’s when the spectre will hunt/
Cloaked in the blue Laws, he prowls/
Shining his light on all that is fowl/
Ready strike with ferocity in the night/
Full of bravado, pride, and yes fright/
Scared of what he may or may not have to do is the spectre’s life/
But his prey, the phantom, has his own strife/
He must straddle the thin line of evil and good/
Fill the flame-riddled streets with bacteria, or live peacefully misunderstood/
Some of the phantoms will spread their outbreak, sending the Spectre into a frenzy/
His fear will cause all phantoms to wear the guise of am enemy/
The misunderstood will lose their innocence/
The spectre will lose his benevolence/
And the bacteria now takes prevalence in the once peaceful inner city streets/
No longer can the phantom walk them and feel safe/
No longer can the spectre feel capable without force/
No longer quiet are our streets under the flames/
Soon the sky will cry as we deflect the fallen names/
Oh what I wouldn’t give to just have those skies set ablaze again/
One without the spectres and phantoms living in sin.

Poetic Ice