The Lost Soul

In the dead of night,

When the world is still,

Comes a fearsome sight,

That makes our blood chill.

The Ripper, they call him,

A figure of dread,

A killer so grim,

Whose victims lie dead.

He stalks the dark alleys,

With his blade at the ready,

And when he strikes,

The streets are left unsteady.

The city's on edge,

As the body count grows,

And nobody knows,

Where the Ripper goes.

But amidst the death and fear,

There's a sorrowful tale,

Of a man consumed by tears,

And a heart that's gone stale.

For behind the mask,

Of the Ripper's cold gaze,

Lies a soul that's been asked,

To bear life's heavy weight.

He's seen love turn to dust,

And heartbreaks turn to pain,

He's carried burdens that rust,

And secrets that drain.

And though he's known loneliness,

Like a shadow that clings,

He's never once confessed,

To the tears that he brings.

For the Ripper, you see,

Is a man of deep sorrow,

Who's lost all he loves,

And is haunted by tomorrow.

He cuts through the night,

With his blade sharp and true,

But all he sees is blight,

In a world that's gone askew.

And so he takes lives,

With a heart that's grown cold,

For in death he finds,

The solace he's been told.

But even as he walks,

The path of the damned,

His soul still talks,

Of a love he can't command.

And so the Ripper's legacy,

Is one of death and pain,

But also of a heart that's heavy,

And a mind that's gone insane.

For in his final act,

As the world closes in,

He lets out a fact,

That few have ever seen.

That behind the mask,

Of the Ripper's dark shroud,

Lies a heart that's been tasked,

With carrying life's heavy load.

And so we mourn,

For the lives he's taken,

But also for the man,

Whose heart was forsaken.

For in death, he's found peace,

But we're left with the scars,

Of a world that's seen,

The Ripper's deadly stars.