Maestro

Darkness falls as the fog creeps in
The Maestro hones his instruments, a composition to begin,
With cold steel gleaming in a flicker of gaslight
From Hell, he springs to conquer the night.

He haunts the East End of London wall to wall
The streets of Whitechapel his concert hall,
Specter of death embodiment of fear
Playing his hymns for the world to hear.

A composer in carnage patiently appraising his crowd
Seeking an ingénue to adorn with death’s worthy shroud,
To make her famous and immortality bestow
 A Devil’s muse given as prey to headline the show.

Setting her apart he is dapper in pose
The Angel of Death in gentleman’s clothes,
His eyes are a warm smile, she glances seductively back
Vulnerable, the lamb ripe for the wolf’s imminent attack.

He will have to woo her on this he is sure
For a lady of the night, she is surprisingly demure,
His is all charm proper, pleasant, and refined
She savors the anticipation forcing danger from her mind.

They seek seclusion away from the uninspired
For the nature of their transaction privacy is required,
A welcoming nook, a darkened lane
She unwittingly gives yield to a demon insane.

Victorian lust is thick upon the air
Plying her trade, a lady caught unaware,
The conductor in command her performance his creation
Urging them closer to satanic elation.

The instruments thrust her to center stage
A minstrel’s pain engulfed in rage,
Cuts and rips the crescendos rise
Her scream a tremble of breath vaporize.

The consummate artist silent as he plays
A symphony of bloody mist and copper haze,
The Devil’s blade carves quick and tight
In his ears, her voice echoes so pure, so right.

A song gently laid virginal and bare
Composed by an artisan’s tender care,
His masterpiece staged boldly for the masses
To stand alone in history as it passes.

On cobblestone, she is posed as such
A work of art imbued with the Maestro’s touch,
Called Leggy Liz Stride she deserved more than this
Condemned by frenzied hunger and a harlot’s kiss.