It’s found sometimes within a furrowed face;
A sneer, a mouth turned down like fangs, a frown;
E’en more in eyes, panes to the hidden place:
A cold hard glint to which ice gives its crown.
It surfaces in words like whales that breach
And wounds without regret, and wracks once more,
Like heartless waves pound piers within their reach
And view the pieces, do naught else but roar.
It is systemic, makes one’s pressure rise,
More prone to heart attacks and crippling strokes,
A venom in the veins of the unwise
A blight that fells the mightiest of oaks.
Hate curdled in the heart spreads through the whole
Till one possession’s left – a poisoned soul.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016