he played a dirty hand
though he washed them
thoroughly each day.
Brilliant mind, hiding
a hollowness so dark
committing horrendous crime
on the lowly and the discharged,
those forced to feed on the grime
of sinners in bright attire.
No one would give a damn
to these despised street beggers
they would know his clever hands,
but their screams would not be heard,
their agony ending in shallow graves.
Ah those hands, how proud he was
so precise, unshaking, for he's a master
his work must be perfect, engraved
in the mind of his seekers
receiving his letters, taunting
leaving no clue to who he is
this ripper of life, never found...
but the night knows
the night has not forgotten
his screams are not heard
as knives swiftly rip at him,
his nightmare ends not.
CarolineCecile - 10.15.12