The Dark Moon

No one to know or see but the wise old owl,
the shadow sneaking down the cobble-stones.
The warm blood runs free from the deed so foul.
As again the old London streets he did stalk.

The dark moon shone on the blade as it glisten,
her body still, as crimson flowed from her breast.
A fading slow heart beat, if you were to listen,
Their was no doubt that time would do the rest.

The beast again waits to strike in the dark night.
His silent blade strikes clean and quite not to hear.
This instrument of death he keeps out of sight.
Walking in the dark night, conjurers up a mortal fear.

At the click of the cobble-stone close behind you,
Can you feel his hot breath? Will you taste the steel?
Can you feel the pain? will they find you in the dew?
As your thoughts fade, what will be the last you feel?


Bob Jackson