Inside The Bard- Birthday Cake

So it was all real...

The cake, birthday, all of it. 

Wickedness remained

Perfect means perfect

So I will write what I saw

And feel to this day. 

"You tell a child it is his birthday. You get him excited by presenting cake and presents. You proceed to eat his cake in front of him, take his presents, and then torture him brutally forever."

You steal the boy's cake

You torture him forever

Or so you intend. 

You watch him writhing 

Finding turning away hard

All the same, you watch

It starts to sink in: 

If he were your son, would you? 

If not yours, could you? 

Who stole what from whom?

Your doubt squeezes like a sponge 

Which your daughter holds.

Let us use this time

To strike a defined accord

On child/children

*There is consensus*

Control indicates smoothly

Perfect Dream cuts in...

***

This was a vision of the threshold, the plumb line, of maximum wickedness that I saw, but held inside because it felt too cruel to even say. The issue with this poem is that, as of even now, the reversal is untrue, so I feel compelled to scribe it. How someone could not be swayed by this image, even suggested, is beyond me. Still, even the most wicked consciousnesses should feel the weight of the following, if they are a conscious entity and can comprehend how the brain stores patterns (perhaps, in a sense, Karma, when overlayed with the effects of endogenous DMT release at the approach of death):

You reap what you sow.

By your own words you will be judged.

By the same measure used it will be used against you.

If that is what can happen to an innocent child, what will happen to anyone who had a hand in making it happen, or even planning such a fate/willingly allowing it to occur?

You are next in line.