Strange Brew

I won't be stirred up into hate.

I see what you are doing

With your potion.

You take a pinch of this and a handful of that,

Dark, hate-filled nuggets that you have stored

In your heart and deposited

On your shelf, trapped

Airless or in drowning brine,

Waiting for the moment

That you release them from their confines.

I see you, standing, mixing,

Spiteful-faced, your need for admiration

A smear on your features.

I wonder:

What do you hope to gain from your strange brew?

Destructive acolytes?

Disturbed sycophants?

You must need this to fill you, I think,

This red fire of others.

You must be empty, a hollowed out chamber,

Vacuous -

A void to avoid.

Black, black, absorbing black,

Adding to your hate pile

With your preening and your posturing.

I watch you like you are an evil spirit.

You must have cast a spell

Because how can it be

That someone so monstrous, so false

Can hold the thrall of so many?