Little shouldn’t play with dead things I heard.
Yet that warning I did not heed as I put flowers at the isolated grave
no one seemed to wanna tend to.
Chunks of lonely hell a corner prepared for an ostracized soul spat from it.
Raising Cain didn’t take wielding the horsemen’s siegel
or muttering sacred words in an extinct Middle age language,
but the naivete of a child to touch the untouchable
For the road of hell is constructed with good intentions.
From the earth he rose a more aspirated Jeffrey Dahmer
wielding not a knife but a ram’s jaw bone.
Seeking to take revenge of sins not yet committed.
Oh the atrocities that came with Raising Cain.
They all lay before him, roads to a freer self.
He elected the rugged one on his way from the wake,
filled with shards of terrible history
When death had every name on it,save for his own,
A mohawked moron with unhinged morals,
snake that wanders as if human,
Then he sets out_ Raising Cain.
Marching hard on blood-red gravel,
Donning a contemptuous face and sought vengeance for a fallen mum,
Whose licentious boyfriend knowingly plagued with HIV.
Gone berserker than a starved council worker
He’s ratchet,stripped straight jackets now he is raising Cain.
Burdened with grief and ghastly tools,
He threatens reprise and utter catastrophe.
I watch and feel for the estranged lover,
But the comparison is false to one who lost a mother,
But does this justify why he raised Cain?