Jack the Ripper

Does the eye deceive
or was there a flicker of movement
beyond the shadows
amid the London fog,
hanging heavy,
like the taste of fear
in the air.

Hollow footfalls ring
upon the cobble stones,
but what is that faint
eccho that seems to follow,
a sudden silence, strangely   
ominous, bated breath.

Relief floods,  
giddy laughter wells up,
as fear dissipates,
the carriage appears,
gentlemanly smiles,
an offered hand.

Dawn rises,
sprinkled sunlight
splashes across
blood stained stones,
where the body lies,
wayward lass,
eviscerated.

The last sight
she saw,
a gentleman's smile
in the dark fog.