The miserable old bound crone.
Her eyes are great evil coruscating rubies.
He, She, and It, her trio of incompetent, disparate, yet well-meaning abductors argue.

Chanted through the crone’s clenched gag are discordant, guttural, and painful syllables.
He thinks of an unbinding, a hand-tightened throat, and the steely glint of a blade.
The crone’s fingers twist in a crooning, chaotic, magic twisted knots.
She remembers a betrayal, the lies, and His heavy hand.
The disease of the crone’s thought sends out seeking, slithering, ensnaring tendrils.
It has snarling dreams of prurience, digging claws, and painful separation.

Glee curling rainbows in her swampgas thoughts as dark magic descends.
Much delightful blood, musical shouts, and artful dying.
Twine round old wrists, filthy cloth stuffed mouth, a remote site.
With hindsight, regret, and rage the crone belatedly reconsiders her solution.

O, What a way to die, near fly tasted corpses, bound in hate and hunger’s slow ossification!