Such professed innocence,
a shameful masquerade
where thoughts are slashed,
butchered by your viperous tongue
that spits its venom with scorned abandon
out into your hostile world.
You stab and fight
then cauterize your wounds
with the tainted saliva of a zealot
rich in bile and cancerous malevolence.
What made you thus?
where sprang this addled poisonous spring,
that gorges on the weak
and drowns the precious words of men?
© Graham Sherwood 11/2015
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