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Whitechapel is a curious
place, its name
A holy one, now fallen into shame;
Close-woven with the harlot's cry, and draped
With murmurs of iniquity: a maiden raped.
I hurry through the streets,
a parcel clutched
Beneath my arm: a thing the knife has touched
And licked around, to sever it from her
Who so defiled it, vending her allure.
Whitechapel is a clinging
place, that seeks
To bind me to it. Every storefront reeks
Of sin, and over all are sticky skies
In which the sun itself can barely rise.
Fog covers the eyes of morning,
stops her mouth
And grasps her throat to crush the warm breath out.