Hate machine

 

Men suck from the tip of your
fingernails the fluid of lives
you tore with your hands,
stomped on with a battlefield
horse dipped in flames and cut
through by a vengeful God’s
iron tools

You are a machine, a bag of organs,
muscle fuelled by acrid fumes
bestowing those lucky ones
bowing before the cold copper toe
of your boot with jaw shattering blows

A reminder of what was once clean
the squandered talents of mankind,
our saint amplifies the human heart
waters her steed at the river of envy
sharpening her sword on malicious
words of gossip to poison everything
in her path

She is a pretty hate machine

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