The curious brew was crossbred with disease and unfurled deserts of violence. Grannies fervor was a resonant rattle of pans and the silver luster of her mixing spoon. She measured out a dollop of depraved smiles and wicked woe, for the intrigue of a ventured challenge, for the gain of an appeasing moon and the misfortune of man.
Granny Chaos mixed her brew with the sordid crypts of insistent gambol, bets bidden in chance and fated turns of cunning. She mixed her cauldron of root and bloom, of anger and bitter embargo as she sang,
"Lawless, scaly and jeer, the will of my
Cauldron in a year, a night, a breath,
A pinch of death, a telling lie,
A groan and a sigh, the shade of night and by
The pure prophecy of sight, I flay the bones of the son in tomes and the flesh of a dream undone by the seams, a dah a dee te la I see the mists of wing fly raven and the reverie of a haven for all the fuss and
Flame of the stew, the same."
Granny Chaos chilled her mix with the ice of an evil eye and the guile of a nightmare demon. In this unheard a drop of love, for the sake of mankind.
submitted at 10:17am
23 September 2010