Hate was something that rarely went unnoticed
(Not under its harshly whispered guises and certainly
Not in its verbose declarations from the metaphorical rooftops)
And always unquestioningly crowned as too strong a word
Not a virtue in this case you understand
It wasn’t something one did but a state that came upon oneself
(Much like a habit that long seems to have been forgotten
And is now only lived.)
A feeling so exclusive to the bearer, no burden seems as heavy
Or a romance as intimate
And those who claim to have been singed by being in its mere vicinity
Knowing of no such passion themselves only do so out of their
Own inadequacy to feel so grandiosely
And so days and nights are consumed in feeling so fastidiously hateful
Until when finally the fog lifts and its for all to see
The epitaph that reads
She loved. So she hated.
She hated. So she could love.
A message etched in stone so to speak.
Clearly a lesson learnt, a life consumed
And in its four letters a lifetime spelt.