Blissful through primal, damp pines, she wandered,
her youth like a pollenous flower dumbly bloomed
with petals seated deranged by the ravaging of the bee,
in trusty shoes she roamed the spiders and the leaves,
in light blue jeans she found a trail leading who knows where,
away from her mother's house, no longer home.

And rain and mist settled on the town,
an early morning storm passing by,
and the trees didn't care by the murderer's house,
as his garden happily bloomed,
he still lay asleep beside agony
dreaming a tub full of centipedes.