A Murmur In Decrepit Wits — Aborted

Murmur – whisper to me Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams Yearning to become real The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy?

These fictions so corporal so obtuse Restricting me, frustrating me The fictions so morbid seem foretold Digging in the psyche

No theory, no medication, no session Can shed light upon the monster I am told to become No theory, no medication, obsession The smell of blood, the soothing of the pain mine A medical condition? No, merely purpose Decrepit wits in a mind mine

These fictions so corporal so obtuse Restricting me, frustrating me The fictions so morbid seem foretold Release the rage in me

Set in motion the first kill Adrenaline, rushing me The fictions so morbid fulfilled Release the real in me

Swing the axe, hang the rope The tales of my coming painted in a spree of gore Do say your prayers, they shall be answered By the cutting of blades as your insides are drained

No longer murmurs – in thy decrepit wits A spree of murder – unleash my insanity Meticulous plan, the fruition of years of mental disorder A spree of terror, the canvas of decay Left behind for them to find, in perspicuity

Murmurs – whisper to me Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams Yearning to become real The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy?