Shackled

Shackled

A cold wind blows, the shadows dance.
I stalk the streets deep in a trance.
Loathing and fear flow in my veins
as I await my crimson chains.

I feel the stirring of pure hate
from a hidden place. I can’t locate
the source of this demonic cyst
yet its opium I can’t resist.

I’m captured, reason pushed aside,
a passenger on this dark ride
to a destination, yet unknown.
The presence smiles. I’m not alone.

My shadow skulks along the wall;
it doesn’t look like me at all!
It’s then I know that soon I’ll kill -
to satisfy him, blood must spill!

The innocent lay in their bed.
A flash of steel and they are dead
as laughter spills out from my throat;
it’s him, not I, that stands and gloats.

The smell of copper fills the air;
my sacrifice to hate lays bare
the festering I hold inside.
Its vile intent can’t be denied.

The chains that dragged me to this place
are loosened and I feel disgrace
as, once again, shackles drop free
and, in disgust, I’m forced to flee.

Repeat, retreat... each time the same.
I find no respite from the blame
of this dark demon with no name
known widely as Whitechapel’s shame.

An entry for Round 30, "Invalid Item" 
Prompt: Image (see above)
Form: Quatrain  
Line Limit: 60
Line Count: 32