Every scream has an echo

Every scream has an echo. In alleyways slick with rain, Where mothers light candles For sons who won’t come home again. It rattles through church halls — Empty pews, silent choirs — Where prayers turn to ash In unholy fires. Every scream has an echo. In the stomach’s hollow roar, Where children count cracks On splintered floors, Dreaming of feasts They’ve never known, Sucking on pennies, Pretending they’re stones. It ricochets off council walls, Graffiti bleeding names of the dead, While men in parliament chambers Debate the price of bread. Every scream has an echo. In veins carved hollow by rusted spoons, In toilets that reek of midnight tombs — Where trembling hands Trade blood for release, And the only high left Is the hope of peace. It hums in the silence After fists meet skin, When apologies are whispered But bruises sink in. Every scream has an echo. It doesn’t fade — It stains the bricks, Haunts the drains, Hangs in gutters Like cigarette smoke, Carrying names No one dares speak aloud. Listen close — You’ll hear them now. A choir of ghosts. Stacked screams. Stacked souls. They scream for justice, They scream for light, But the echo grows darker Night after night. And when it circles back — It lands in you. In your chest. In your breath. In your truth. Every scream has an echo — And one day, It will answer you.