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Personal Note:

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Poem

It's a mystery, a tale
For years told
It's a gruesome fact,
An evil to  behold.


In the midst of the darkness
Where no one can see
He makes his way through town
Not making a sound.
Hidden from all
It's his expertize
To slip by you 
Silently like the breeze.


He only comes out
After dark, stalking its prey,
Waiting patiently in the night
To reveal a truth, a sight unimaginable 
To the mind.

He finds pleasure 
In his work, he treats it
As a skill, like an artist 
Would  a painting. It gives
Him a thrill.

He hides deep within 
The darkness, all so still, waiting 
For his next victim, waiting for the right time to
Kill.


In the absence of the  light
He sneak's up behind her
She feels the silence
Of the night, she see's her life flash
Before her, she tries to take a breath
But all she can hear is  the sound of her own
death. 

As she grasp for air 
A warm feeling comes running down
Her neck onto her chest. 
She knew then, that she became
His next victim. 
The phantom of the night,
The leather apron
She then fell backwards 
In the arms of her killer
In the arms of
Jack The Ripper.

June 30th 2016

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