The constant hater

For some people hate is formol for the soul,

it keeps their blood flowing at a sure rate,

their death is postponed because they are cruel –

prolonging their life by prolonging their hate –

oft it's the last option available.

Great-grandma would have died decades ago

had she not hated us with all her guts,

slyly stoking her rage for it to glow –

loathing more familiar because love hurts –

but hating needs constant care lest it rusts.

Bitter as could be great-grandma hates on

but now she wants help to sleep the long sleep,

so when she finally asks her great-grandson

he ignores the kind plea and blames the grippe –

leaves her muttering to herself, alone.