Entangles your feet,
dusty roots hold you hostage,
it blossoms and manifests inside of
attics and closets,
parasite-like resentment feeding on corpses
and when the corpses rot to skeletons,
when the stink of rotting flesh has left this musky room,
the parasites go hungry, empty.
No rhyme or reason for feeling this way,
Spite has an ugly face:
one we've all been haunted by,
one we've all haunted with.
Yellowed teeth bear a snarl,
rotting flesh, bloodshot eyes--
This is no artist,
this is no actress,
this is no model,
this is no perfectionist,
there is no beauty for this beast,
no grace sleeps here.
And where grace does sleep,
and lay seeds for green and greed to grow
where grace will find Her grave
and know trepidation, know fear.
Spite has an acerbic soul --
Selfish, jealous, proud, pretentious, artificial?
Lonely, overwrought, skeptical, insecure?
To know the victim and the victimizer--
Who should we feel more sorry for?