Shadow-clad, softly he treads,
a harbinger of death, and he's out hunting.
Stilettos in a leather belt, his weapons keen
and gleaming in the gaslight;
skulking in concealment there he waits.
Patience; his bloodlust can't be hurried.
He hears footsteps on the cobblestones,
a harlot leaves her trick and heads for home.
Silently he sneaks behind, disgusted
by her cheap perfume, and strikes.
He draws his blade across her neck,
a crimson torrent splatters.
Slick and precise, he harvests
what he needs from the hapless wench
and disappears back into darkness.
What sickness sparks his bestial lust,
and who then is to blame?
It matters not, the deed is done,
a debt that must be paid.
his is a soul that never will be saved.