In London’s fog, so dimly lit,
Where gaslight shadows softly flit,
Albert Crowe, unseen, did tread
The backstage world where dreams are fed.
By day, a hand upon the stage,
By night, alone with silent rage,
Within his room, his heart’s lament
Beneath the guise of merriment.

A lonely soul in twilight’s gloom,
His life a cycle, toil his doom,
Yet spring brought change with sweet Eliza’s face,
A star whose light his dark would chase.
Her voice like bells, her smile bright,
That cut through shadows of the night,
But admiration soon would turn
To darker flames that fiercely burn.

His heart, once filled with gentle views,
Now tracked her steps, her smiles perused;
From fascination grew a need
That festered into darkened greed.
In corridors, he’d plan to meet,
With props misplaced, and whispers sweet,
Yet every smile she’d cast aside
Drove deeper still the thorns of pride.

When autumn’s chill brought spectral play,
He chose this scene to make her stay.
A dagger hidden, curtain’s call—
This hallowed eve would see it all.
In her chamber, quiet, dim,
He spoke of love, his voice so grim.
A blade, a ******, a scream did rise,
A final look in frightened eyes.

With horror, what his hands had wrought,
The chaos of a twisted thought.
He fled the scene, his soul unbound,
Her spectral screams the only sound.
By guilt and visions sorely pressed,
In nightly haunts, he found no rest.
Each day a play, each smile a mask,
In sorrow’s light, he’d daily bask.

One night, upon the stage, he stood,
Clad in the hero’s garb and hood.
The crowd, unaware of coming doom,
Watched silent in the gathering gloom.
He spoke, his voice a hollow shell,
Of love and loss, of heaven and hell:
“Behold a man, by darkness driven,
To seek his peace, to be forgiven.

“My heart was lost, my soul misled,
By dreams of love that now are dead.
For in my grasp, a deed so dire,
Has quenched the light of passion’s fire.
O Eliza, sweet and fair,
Your ghost now haunts my every prayer.
No longer can this heart be still,
Tonight, I end this tragic thrill.

“So listen now, as curtains close,
On final acts, on bitter woes.
With this blade that once did part,
The life and breath of my own heart,
I take my leave, my soul to free,
From chains of mortal agony.
May angels guide me where I roam,
And lead my spirit safely home.”

With that, he turned the blade to chest,
In death’s embrace, he sought his rest.
The curtain fell, the crowd in tears,
Reflecting on his haunted years.
Silence reigned, the theatre still,
A tale of woe, of mortal ill.
On vaudeville’s stage, a shadow cast,
A love, a life, a breath—his last.