Wickedness isn’t born like me or you or a kitten, it doesn’t sprout from the ground like a flower or a tree.
Wickedness is created, like a painting, stroke by stroke upon an unyielding piece of canvas
like a mural on a wall with nothing to stop it from becoming something else other then a cool brick wall.
Wickedness is like Frankenstein’s Monster stitched together in secret from stolen corpses taken from the ground in the dead of night against their will with rough hands and rusty shovels.
Wickedness in a tribute, a memorial to the remains of good things
that should have been.