Jack

In the streets of London...

Blood flows like red silk,
from her bleeding heart,
The ripper watching, sees
his work as morbid art,

As her pulse does fade;
Soon she will be dead.
His face, a blank slate,
from where no tears are shed.

While her soul, like a feather,
Will soon float away,
The killer's black soul remains
here, at least for one more day.