Smoggy streets,
gas lanterns burning,
cutting through the darkness,
a few feet either way.
Slicing up chunks of the night
and throwing them
to keep the wolves at bay.
Hope withers, shaking
before fading in
with the grey.
She worked the night.
These alleys, her workplace
in the grimmest times.
Feet sore, blistered.
Haggard face.
She stumbled.
He walked like a shadow
in the soiled snow.
Trudging, she hears
the dragged heels, picking up pace.
The cane pounding just behind.
Nowhere to run,
no way her feet could drag her
away from here. Away from hell.
For this was her last night
and on that cold paving slab,
she saw dead eyes staring back.
A man, the media had named Jack.
Surgical gown stained in lives,
started his attack
and the light dripped red.
Her screams
unanswered.
The night fell quiet
her screams
went dead.
Ten bells
only a stone’s throw away
from where Mary Jane Kelly
walked into that foggy haze,
but no one
will see her here again.
Not today, nor any day.
Her body lay where it was slain.
the red stain will never wash away,
It will remain, throughout history.
A memory on Whitechapel’s
collective brain.
Jack sits and drinks,
thirsty work he thinks
as he downs another.
5 in a row
and the police
will never know.
He walks off into the
ever darkening
shadows.
Thanks for reading
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