Silence, that is all I can hear

As I walk down the hollow hall on Ukraine street

I cling to my coat with fear

Some music starts playing in a far distance

Softly.

but now I wonder

why him?

Mr Jones

Where was he when his wife died?

At work, maybe?

At a coffee shop?

At home?

Why was she brutally murdered?

Why did it have to be a lovely soul?

As lovely as her husband’s

to this day, he still feels like he’s at fault

The poor lonely MR Jones