D: THE RIPPER

THE RIPPER

Mizzle spooned against the shutters.
Dusk steadily creeping mingles,
With tar like pools in the gutters.
Stone-tiled earthworks embellished to keep,
Out the elements to the North,
Backed up by imposing cliffs so steep.
Yet something journeyed like a ghost,
Using the shadows to his utmost.
Rain didn't seem to hinder his tread,
Hushful, catlike maundering,
While society lay snug in bed.
Trails of smoke swirled the night sky,
Weaving, twisting upwards,
Even night birds no more did cry.
Hooded his features could not be seen,
The usual flickering street light,
Was prevalent as if held in an endless scream.
Tastebuds tingled from the hogwash odor of food,
Rats took advantage of this so cunning so shrewd.
In a way he was like them in the spiritless of the night,
Instead of incisors to do a job,
A pouch of tools held all the bite.
Through an open window thy slinked,
Up stairs deeper into shadow trying to be silent.
A closed bedroom door the main goal,
He could almost sense the dreamer's soul,
Entering the chamber a poster above the four poster,
Flamed back at the tormentor.
She slumbered unaware in all her bloom,
Exotic skin full of pleasing perfumes.
As her dreams were earthshaking,
He released the blade and sank it without thinking.
Not even a yelp or a cry for help,
I had my prey.
Like a workhorse flesh was cut until,
All the organs were massed neatly fresh.
Outside the azure was inky black,
Stars shone back something moved like a skyrocket,
Tools in hand and jars in pocket.
The dead of night might be illicit,
But incisions were professional quite exquisite.
Slowly creeping back into hiding,
A job with a fatal skill,
Committed so many times just for the thrill.