#apron
on the edge of an apron,
border above,
hands bleed out the natron,
of thee, flies a dove.
a candlelight’s beam,
a trapdoor below,
the words to one seem,
for other to know.
soft natron in voice,
the labyrinth backstage,
out heart peaks a choice,
trapped in a black cage.
hearts bleed out to tears,
such glory they’ve seen,
eyes brighten of flares,
thee treasure, so keen.
a bow of the taking,
brown feathers as prop,
out wings lads were aiding,
necks tied with a strop.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
One beam of morning light
blesses a simple kitchen apron.
Standing here, and only here,
the whole world is made
of small, white petals.
On a day much like today,
infinity became my home.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC