He has only hate in his heart for me.
The chair is set, the silence measured out,
A sanctuary built on trust and care,
But poison drips from lips devoid of doubt,
And shatters glass upon the heavy air.
He holds the scalpel, not to heal the wound,
But carves the edges deeper than before,
With every sharp remark, a life is pruned,
Left bleeding on the carpet of the floor.
How does he wear the title like a crown,
While dismantling the spirit, piece by piece?
To take a soul already bowing down
And offer torment, never its release.
What makes him think his seat is high and cold,
That he is judge, and god, and final word?
To trade the grace that he was meant to hold
For cruelty, left jagged and unheard.
It is a hollow man who plays this part,
Who mistakes a fragile life for common clay,
To reach inside and tear the beating heart,
Then watch the light of someone fade away.
Oh, heavy cost for those who came to mend,
To find the wolf has cloaked himself in white;
The broken heart has nowhere to defend
When darkness rules the healer’s weary light.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2026 17:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
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