Sunday, November 30, 2025

Hate November 2025

A black and bloody flower
Blooms in his hearts’ bower,
Its scent poisoning the hour.
Its thorns, proliferating pain,
Stab at us again and again.
Words wound all without stint,
Gasping, insulting, by dint
Of scatter from a mouth’s cage —
Like a billion moths of rage
Demanding the end of the age.