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.

Hate

A black and bloody flower

Blooms in the hearts’ bower,

Its scent poisoning the hour.

Its thorns, proliferating pain,

Stab the heart again and again.

Words wound us without stint,

Hot soughing winds by dint

Of battering the heart’s cage —

Like a billion moths of rage

Demanding the end of the age.