December 16, 2017
She crawls on her belly as if evolution
gave her no arms nor legs
so full of venom she speaks poison
with every breath,
a rattler in the desert
too old to slither her way to the top
so clings to the dark under rocks,
where she can hatch her plots
with self-deluded self-righteousness
too bitter and dried up even
to shed her skin, though still
manages to ooze out the blood
she sucks from those she hates,
poisoning herself in the dead of night
when she has nobody she can bite,
twisting self-delusion into what
she believes as truth,
turning noble causes into something
ugly,
wringing out every drop of that sour
fruit
to get drunk on,
until she can crawl to some other pool
of poisoned water where she can refresh
her hatred for anything she
disagrees with,
finding no solace in the lonely
and mistaken belief
she is always right.
