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Her Charcoal Cape
Her shadow-play,
thin and fleeting.
In a somber cloak,
an obsidian mantle,
obscuring, enshrouding
arms of great length.
The stygian wrap
disguises the glint of the blade.
She, on the streets of Whitechapel,
no need for ambush.
Who would suspect another woman,
who, while matching steps,
was indeed stalking women.
Searching abdomens
for her long-lost babe,
when grief has turned to madness.
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