Jack the Ripper
I walked the streets
where fog felt alive,
where lamps shook faintly
as if afraid to shine,
his shadow lingered
in corners untouched,
a presence watching
with cold patient eyes,
women hurried
with breath held tight,
their steps uneven
when darkness stirred,
the night remembered
what he once was,
a ghost still hunting
through London’s veins,
old cobbles echoed
with something wrong,
a low soft murmur
of past despair,
the river shivered
beneath the bridge,
as if it tasted
his quiet sin,
and every heartbeat
in that still place
felt close to ending
when he drew near.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (2)
I have always been fascinated by Jack the Ripper, and who he actually was. I visited London at one time and did a night tour through the streets where he committed his murders; it's very confronting. Elements of how I felt came through in your poem.
One can feel the terror and sense that Jack was near. Good job.