The Knife Remembers — by Strange Killer

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"Violence and murder are never a solution to anything.

They are symptoms of a mental illness — something that must be treated or punished, not ignored."


"Beneath the Gaslight"

In Travancore’s throat where the lamplight dies,

A whisper walks with butcher’s grace—

A blade that gleams like serpent eyes,

And leaves no soul, no trace.


She wore her hunger like perfume,

A Rupees dream in crimson thread.

The silence bloomed, the alley bloomed—

And dawn would count the dead.


Who are you, shade of man or myth,

With scalpel hands and surgeon’s art?

A ghost who carves his name in myth,

And rips through Travancore’s heart.


The rain still hums his lullaby,

The fog still hides his sin—

For though the hands of time pass by,

He walks the dark within.

I move where moonlight dares not gleam,

A whisper stitched into the seam

Of Travancore's breathless, crooked spine—

The gaslight's blink, the cobblestone's whine.


My hand is steady, my purpose clear,

I hunt not flesh—but perfect fear.

Each breath they take, each step they make,

Is music I am born to break.


They do not see—oh, how they pass—

These lilies growing from the gas.

A girl, a name, a life to sell—

She dances on the edge of hell.


I am not rage. I am not lust.

I am precision wrapped in dust.

A scalpel drawn across the soul—

I do not kill. I make them whole.


Five songs I played. Five hearts unstrung.

The ballet of the unseen tongue.

And still they chase what they can’t know—

A shadow cast by candle’s glow.


My name? No need. I left my mark

In crimson trails across the dark.

While Travancore  sleeps, I sip the night.

The knife remembers. I still write.


“The One Who Watched the Fog”


I’ve seen the rain scrub blood from brick,

Like truth erased in grime.

Five bodies, cold — five questions thick —

That mock the hands of time.


He moves where order fears to go,

Through slum and soot and sin.

A surgeon's gift. A butcher's woe.

The devil’s calm within.


Each scene he leaves — a masterstroke,

In horror’s quiet frame.

But never once has silence spoke

A clue, a face, a name.


I light my pipe. The smoke just spins.

The press cries out for war.

While in my dreams, he softly grins—

Then fades through East Fort’s door.


He walks still, cloaked in myth and shame.

I’ll chase him till I fall.

But even if I learn his name—

Will justice know him at all?

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