She's a mystical thing, that's for sure
Each night we hold hands in a circle
And feel the stroke of the Dead's hands
Crawling caresses along our cheeks
Flakes of skin and mould; inner thighs
Heart, mouth, YELLOW-STAINED EYES
We play with such imaginings as toys
We were young, after all; what was a drop
Of blood? A doll full of pins? A mother of 'sins'?

She was a mystical thing, that's for sure
We watched her sew up a doll of our daddy
His scowl life-like and stiff in the fabric
She may as well have handed us the knives
Pin, by pin, I felt her bruises; her disgrace
And the day she wore a short skirt; I saw the scars
Bruised thighs, cut and mauled; Scars upon the fragile.
She was young, after all; what was a cut
Through flesh? Through souls? To a daughter of hate?

I was a mythical thing then, that's for sure
A laced surging mass of tears and fury
Wound around a clockwork dial; clicking my way
Through mountains of doubt and voodoo-eyes
Questioning candles and the little daddy doll
Her room exploded; dolly home again
I would have killed just for the screams
Beating and beating, his cigarette breath
(A new way to put down your work briefcase)
I glided in; and he forced her down. Invisible was I
I was young, after all; what was a knife for

But to stab through his back? His yellow-stained eyes?
No more lambs left to slaughter, so we ate his cries.

This may suck, but I see it as an end to a bout of writer's block.