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?