Spite

Spite

In the dim alleyways of a restless mind,
Spite coils like a serpent of frost,
Its scales are the sharp edges of wounded pride,
Its breath a chill that steals the sun's warm thrust.

It feeds on the silence between kind words,
A poison that drips from a clenched jaw,
Each grudge a stone laid upon the pathway,
Turning fellowship into a weary draw.

Yet spite, though bitter, can be a looking‑glass,
Reflecting the cracks we try to hide,
When we stare into its murky depth,
We may realise the wounds we have tried to deny.

So let us not nurture the frost‑bitten flame,
But let it melt beneath the sun of forgiveness,
For in releasing the spite we carry,
We find the strength to mend our own tenderness.