A Cold Road Calling

The ghost road beckons; man's creation;
a dark and dreary road where some still walk,
all alone in flaming hell's perdition,
between high walls where killers deftly stalk;
to prey on hapless victims while they live,
unaware the game of death comes calling
only to enclose them in cold graves.
They who walk there, walk afraid, unwilling,
enslaved upon this road so coldly cobbled,
paved with flesh and blood of random killing;
bound by guilt they do not own, thus hobbled
deep within that killers bloody gutter.
To hear the whispered words of deaths prediction
-- a human life upon the alter --
and mark it thus brings no salvation;
only questions hover without answer:

Why do they delve in madness, gifts of killing
when it can only drive you raving?