1888

As I prowl the nights of London
the air is diffuse with
heavy despair.
The lamps flicker, casting
their muted glow on
the dirty street.
A cacophony of noise
reverberates against
the windows and boards of
dilapidated buildings,
nearly shanties.
Feline
Canine
Infant
Laughter
Anger
Clatter
Susurrus.
White Noise.
The vermilion feeling
on the brink
inside me
threatens to spill over onto
the broken cobblestones.
I need to cleanse
this city.
My disgust nearly
overwhelms me.
The papers have it
wrong.
Justified cleansing of
wrongful acts is not
‘terrorizing’.
Their own
guilt
is what makes them
afraid.