And in the cave
Hear water drip,
Smell the limestone,
And see the witch.
A wicked witch
With evil spells
And nasty ingredients
Like entrails, and toenails.
Potions for depression,
Potions for heartbreak,
Potions for nightmares--
That's all that she makes.
She stays in her cave,
Comes out only at night
To bring hate to adults,
And little kids fright.
The villagers NEVER say her name
Its cursed they say,
And if anyone mouths it,
Then she'll whisk them away.
She will take you to her cave,
And use you as her slave,
You'll be a lab rat.
Don't you dare misbehave.
But one day,
Her spell went wrong...
With went wrong with a twister,
She's now a fair maiden... But also my sister.
By Arcassin Burnham
Cracking necks and sneezing to prevent
Pure evil from letting go your misguided
Soul from this hell and her hell and his
Hell is a lot different than what it might
Seem in his or her eyes,
To be human beings in these dark times,
Pushing and pacing and paving numbers of
The population while playing sick games,
When all we want is sunny days with fresh
Playing Frisbee in cold winters and make
Beds for summer,
Some are quite good swimmers,
Some are good runners,
in the grass we go.
I remember the telling signs, of the forsaken path I carved for myself at such a young age, hopelessly lost.
The night terrors with bed wetting, a curiousity for the pain of others, and an undying love of flames.
Triads are sacred, often depicting tales of both good and evil, where I fall somewhere broken in between.
I drank till my belly was full, of that sweet gasoline, a hair trigger away from immolation.
See fire was soothing, watching it all burn was the beginning of my perfect crooked world.
Burning bridges, burning friends, burning anything for no real reason other than a crooked smile.
This wildfire of a tortured soul was doomed the moment I met the truth.
Only existing in the ashes, that evil had given the breathe of life.
I saw them stare, right through me, never knowing what I was.
Hating them for it, for this alienation, I will always remember.
But this is but a fragment, of a fractured soul.
Each broken shard screeching in the night for control.
I have never known peace, just the madness.
We do not even recognize ourselves anymore.
Just faceless creatures, struggling for singularity.
We bow to our king.
His fiendish broken crown.
Flashing his fangs.
Past generations of manual workers gone
but studied by curious historians
like an unsustainable extinct animal
Multitudes of modern middle aged men
occupied only part of the time
of their newly frustrated fractious lives
A once impressive work ethic crushed to dust
full time factory fodder now a nostalgic aspiration
not the necessary working class evil of old
The early 1980s returning in ghostly icy whispers
on winds of despair to an "unskilled" demographic
I have no answers only observational empathy
Evil hears the cries of the broken,
yet it continues to shatter the heart of an innocent mind.
Evil sees the loneliness inside a little girl,
and steals the moment he can to destroy that innocent world.
No one could hear her cry
No one could understand why,
why evil is controlling her life.
Components of his sin,
nothing but destruction in human skin
This innocent soul?
Manipulated and lacerated;
he was lost long ago
No faith resides
and his book was merely
my distorted comic
through these veins;
your trust diminishing,
farewell to thy.
I saw an apprehensive black cat today,
against a snowed-in backdrop of white.
It broke its stride - - pausing to continue down its line;
this only left me wondering why.. It then turned right,
& looked my way ...one ..last ..time ~ before ~ off into...
the brush it jumped -- back into the shadows --
where best it knew to hide. & then I realized its caution...
for there was a path it would not cross,
a track it would not dare dissect....
“Aye,” I thought. Aye ..that rail ...was mine.
Sins are often forgotten.
Brain molecules are overwritten,
cell pathways erased,
as good conquers evil.
The righteous actions that ignite enlightenment
and solace for the sins we can't remember
are also eventually forgotten,
because evil also devours virtue
in what priests and monks refer to
as an ancient and everlasting battle.
Some people live out their lives in solitude.
We see them in quiet jobs,
alone in libraries and coffee shops.
They patiently wait out the battle
for the day when the struggle ends
and they finally know tranquility
Others choose action,
to play their roles as instruments, weapons,
sometimes for the forces of good
and sometimes for the forces of evil.
I’ve chosen to add my flavor of mayhem to the world,
inspired in forgotten nightmares
and during quiet car rides home
after the job has drained the last drops
of energy and self-respect.
Without the battle
humanity certainly would be boring.
Unfortunately for all of us
nothing is quite so dull
For years, dead in a world
to the point of no return,
like a puppet being controlled,
no free will, doing what I'm told
The rhythm of my voice seems hollow
mind locked away, incredibly distant,
cloud of mist, sorrow tear,
echo strong, emotional gear
threads are cut,