A mist in a dark forest, 

it intercepts a desperate call for help.

A royal palace built upon centuries of stone carvings

mistaken for a haven. 

It is the tool 

that breaks into the fortress

and steals the bread meant for the poor.

It takes the form of whispers amongst quivering lips

and weaves itself into embroidered quilts passed from

mother to father to son to daughter 

to you

to me 

a promise spiraled into a storm of malice

it is the crank of the heat that boils blood

and fuels a fist

a yell.

It simmers fear and feeds on the emptiness

of souls unknowing of what they have allowed inside.

It raps on the door.

The weak open, hoping for a savior

to find the corpse of love

upon the doorstep.

 

Hatred

must be stopped.