No one remembers anyway, so what's the point?

a tickle,
a sycophantic trickle,
down and
              down and
                            down it goes;
                                                it spirals onward, onward,

through a haven forest brimmed full with vines plenty -
wrapping themselves footloose in a sea of frenzy;
they squeeze, oh! how they squeeze -
it's almost comical - like candy;
a sweet reminder of the grim divine
eagerly awaiting a fate of pasty sublime - and
my oh my! how the vines do wind;
twisting and shaking as if to rid the world of it's light!

but they bear no fruit for their unfortunate mistake,
a telling of disease, famine, ubiquitous in a sea of apathy;
which deals cards laden with maids of unknown certainty;
who brandish weapons - armed to the teeth with effervescent knowledge;

that tickles
ever trickles,
                  downward, ever
                                        downward, ever
                                                                onward, ever

through a haven forest brimmed full with vines plenty.