Wrapped Hate

Anger and frustration are much to stern
For me to explain what it is I feel;
And mere callousness cannot help but burn
Into the mind and soul that reel's in hate.
Love and glory are but memories distant
To the man who wishes enemies explode
At a mere thought. But for these miscreants
That do call themselves friends, these toads that blend
In with the population that are known
To all the wide world as frogs, my anger
Would not be so kindled. Yet it has flown
With such speed that Mt. St Helen's ranger
Of doom could not keep stride with it, nor plead
For a slower pace; for hatred that boils
In the mind for an hundred years, toils in
Secret chambers of the soul with foils,
Does not slow to the sound of any call,
But presses on in a mighty crash, falls
Headfirst, regards the aftermath with such
Bitter disregard that birds would be feint
Of wing for lack of branch which they could touch.
So does hate trample down bush and tree, taint
The very water with foulness of being
That even the most holy creature could
Not stomach it's most unholy sting. Would
That I could be free of such an evil.

                                                              Wrapped Hate, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012