Pity for the Poisoner
Venomous words roll from your dissembling tongue with ease in the absence of the defendants. All pretence of comradeship forsaken as the door clicks shut. Your intangible barbs slice deeply, though not as intended. Each acid flecked barrage serves only to sever the final vestiges of our waning trust. No credence is given to the tortuous calumny that seeps so freely through your splintered masks.
What warps and sullies a soul to so extreme an extent that its only solace can be found in such underhanded destruction of civility?
I know not, but I pity you.
You, who are destined to live a life of spite and misery,
You, who would so eagerly ascend on the bloodied backs of fellow travelers to attain nothing of lasting value or worth,
When you finally reach that barren destination you will find that your high tower’s steeple has served only to split the rancid belly of your bitter soul. It has left you cold and hollow; its frosted silken walls will not bring you happiness, or love, or warmth to carry you through the long nights ahead.
The defendants will not be returning. The doors are bolted; Arachne’s weave has been cut.
We have made our homes far from your withering shadow and, though we pity you, you will be forgotten.