Cold howling screams heard
Escaping under cramped and
Drafty hollow steel

Her home is between
a dream and consciousness;
old specter of dark quartz.
Cradling her spells in skin-bound volumes,
old weaver of animosity,
the priestess of remorse.

In the amber fens, she's painting ripples
with turquoise glow.
Dancing with her puppets in a hellish glade
with skeletal hands
reaching from the mud and snow.

Sat beside the creaking wheel,
she draws phantoms on her loom.
Stirring murky potions
and studying the architects of doom.

Oft gazes her eyes of jeweled fire
upon the black smoke of a spectral pyre.
Watch her scribbling our forsaken fates.

At the edge of a cliff
My heart sprints like a bullet
My arms tremble impatiently
Waiting for my decision
Do I stay on solid ground
Where the illusion of safety is a blanket
Only faintly covering
The truth of impending doom?
Or do I dive into the unknown
Hoping to splash into water
And avoid the jagged land?

Mutilated corpses scattered thoughout the dark streets of london,
Were the doing of but one depraved and sinister demon.

One hundred and thirty three years and eleven months later,
No one, not one single soul, knows the name of this vile killer.

So he'll continue to go by the name of Jack the ripper,
Till someone brings to light the identity of the monster.

You shake and tremble inside,
As howling pierces through the stain glass.
For you have ran from the devil’s ride,
His born demon growling after your ***…

As you have made it through the chapel door,
You pray the lock keeps you safe and warm.
Your soul shakes and rattles to the core,
Around you your love is torn.

What is left of candlelight,
Forces you to fret among the pews.
For no one can save your soul tonight,
Bleeding outside your lover’s heart he chews…

Thunder strikes the cross to fall and crack down,
You choke and pray your dear rosary.
Your screams beg to awaken the town,
Asleep they are, Wolfberry.

So sweet the taste a wolf wants,
And sweet the taste the wolf will get too.
Scratching and clawing the wood it haunts,
Just a couple more seconds to get through.

Tackled down the door revealing the moon,
The death of darkness has fixed red eyes.
Your blood to the beast is not immune,
He latches on your demise…

He said he loves scary ****, so I took out a 7 inch buck knife, made in 1972, and I grabbed his wife by the scruff of her neck. I slowly cut his wife's throat from one ear, to the other. The sounds echoed in the modest home, and her blood sprayed all over his scared face. He died of a heart attack within minutes. At least he died doing something he loves...being scared...sorry he couldn't enjoy it longer