Dear sweet animosity,
No shame in treading on flourishing beds;
An irregular shower of pesticides
serpent-like and cunning,
spreading to some benign disease
that is felt on the left of the chest.
A plague that resides in one being
unable to conjure up the strength to advance.
Buboes filled with malevolence,
yearning to be cut open
to ‘ease’ the reckless swelling.
Whilst skipping around the unsteady cusp,
ill footing and ill care leads to a fatal, unexpected lurch.
A fall into a soon-to-be lidded casket
I myself will nail air-tight.
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Comments about this poem (Dear sweet animosity, by Laura Milner )
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