I’m out on loan. I’m someone’s only begotten son. The umbilical is uncut and loaded with trip mines. I’m festering with harbingers; someone fires a shotgun and they scatter like cave bats.
My enemies slink thru the forest spreading bread crumbs for me to follow that they hope will shape a trail to the witch’s door.
They have faith in the old witch. She’ll lure me into the oven and slam the door shut. Her bread will rise and no one will go hungry.