Don’t imagine flames dancing warmly;
nor head nor tail of it.
And beautiful is a telescope, soft lensed,
determined not to mention a murderous inception.
The forensics are back.
It’s blood—always was.
A spectrometically incontestable match.
Maybe this masked, velvet few inches
of finch was too refined to pull the trigger,
but it knows who did;
was there up to its bowels
in blood, accessorising the fact,
like the spattered brooch found pinned to the breast
of the Ripper’s corpse,
sopping it up.
Follow us for more: