Jack the Ripper

Jack the Ripper

I walked the streets

where fog felt alive,

where lamps shook faintly

as if afraid to shine,

his shadow lingered

in corners untouched,

a presence watching

with cold patient eyes,

women hurried

with breath held tight,

their steps uneven

when darkness stirred,

the night remembered

what he once was,

a ghost still hunting

through London’s veins,

old cobbles echoed

with something wrong,

a low soft murmur

of past despair,

the river shivered

beneath the bridge,

as if it tasted

his quiet sin,

and every heartbeat

in that still place

felt close to ending

when he drew near.