Off into the deep dark woods,
With a wicker box of goods.
Jar of jam, loaf of bread,
Doctor prescribed rest in bed.

The forests single trail,
To far in to fail,
Sliver of red dashing,
Amidst the rains lashing.

Mother went to town for the weeks end,
To go see childhoods friend.
So the cottage is free for me,
No danger did I see.

My grandmothers rickety house bore signs of age,
In her garden she grew sage,
To keep away spirits of rage.
But her herbs seemed to be dead.

Voices of doubt whispered in my head.
Is she here, her body is near,
But is her mind, and that smile kind,
She said when her sage shows signs of age,
It's time to run like theirs a fire on stage.  

Despite my feeling
I opened the door
Scent sent me reeling
I stumbled to the floor.

Stood by the fire-place
Was a face out of place,
A man in my grans robes,
I felt prickles in my ear lobes.

He smiled a grim grin of many teeth,
Eyes of sin screamed a soul thief.
I turned to run,
But he grabbed and yelled ***.

"What about my treats and sweets,
Don't leave," the man tugged at my sleeve.
"I was going to get you pickings of thyme"
I said to the impersonating slime.

"I'll cook you a beef steak."  
"Magnificent" said the rake.
Gran kept steak for me,
Why I ate it she didn't see.

Oil and thyme, in the frying pan.
Waiting on time, heat reddens the crying Pan.
When ready I bashed the pan down on his head,
Praying he smashed on the ground dead.

Then I took a sharp silver knife,
To his throat, to end his life.
Blood, arterial spray, enters the fray. Chaos rampant here,
The scent of her body near.

I went to her room then fell to my knees in doom.
I carried her limp frame to the sodden ground,
Buried her beneath a mound.

Then grabbed sage stricken by age,
Put it in the devils shocked screaming mouth,
Then put his body ablaze to send his dark soul streaming south.

The Dark Pariah and The Mouth Breather went to go get a jump start on their blackmail and their payback

All the kissup's
All the suckup's
Who think they're the best thing since sliced bread with the crust cut off
Who pick on people's foibles and leave their self-image in shambles
Not to mention all the narcissists who claim to have coined certain phrases we all use, then pucker up to the ***** of those who can keep up with the Joneses

They were going to make this world go belly up
Remove all of the potholes and speed bumps in life

The Dark Pariah wrote his plan in chicken scratch
And The Mouth Breather wrote his in calligraphy

The Mouth Breather's plan was to kick start a new denomination of hero worship
All followers must give themselves rug burn and stick up three banks in thirty minutes then put their plunder in the collection plate on Tuesday mass

The Dark Pariah's plan was to create music to their ears
That would make them hopscotch off a cliff and free fall to their deaths
This was part and parcel for his sham to exact his vengeance

But ipso facto they never followed through with their plans due to sheer laziness
And now they're both dominated by remorse and online FAQ's

Such a deep, grating pain with such little remorse
Perhaps it’s explained by the pain I have forced
Or emptiness inside me where I used to be packed
It’s contrast - I’m burning; I’m freezing; I’m cracked

Deep in the breeze there’s a misguided longing
Like people I’ve lost or the soul I’ve left wandering
In the jail of my mind - a place void of all feeling
And the love I’ve let go which I’ve taken to stealing

A few words stick out - the ones that might matter
If I’d delete the pronouns; the seeking; her laughter
My passion’s a symptom; my knowledge a curse
Infectious like pollen - easier dispersed

And how do you hear it?  Have I wrote it the same?
Does it seem like you’re touring remnants of my brain?
Or does it simply mean nothing like the person who wrote it?
Either way it’s still hard for my beat veins to hold it.