Grey skies and a solemn season,
Within the time of mirth and cheer,
No smiles or at best fleeting,
Grief behind the lids shut tight.
But not that type of this I see,
A smorgasbord of wicked deceit,
A web of layers intricate,
A goal so clear the message dear.
A cunning devil in plain sight hides,
Plotting and planning in broad moonlight,
Stirring, pothing, ingrained evil,
Bred not born and heightened toll.
Forgiveness cannot be gifted now,
The steps past sane in thousands count,
Down the path to unknown consequence,
Alone on that route the bitch descends.