Thursday, August 20, 2009

A Whitechapel Moment

A fog of incoherent descent
on the impoverished streets,
alit in the glow of gas lamps
and the whetted stones from
Clydesdale hoofs on the
dusty, drury, cobblestones.

A trellis of bloom in a night's
tethered earning in tawdry
tulle... red, ripped, and spent.

Pollyanna walking to a brindle
of a hazy birthright writhing,
then marching in stride to macadam.

Each step a drunken death march
to a barren chatter of a silent surgeon's scalpel,
eviscerating a soul with no known enemies...

The silence was deafening.


  1. I confess, this took a while to sink in. But, when it did, it brought me to senses to actually appreciate this fantastic piece! Keep writing!!!

  2. Thanks Ajey. This was written after a nightmare I had... as a victim of Jack the Ripper.