by Nick Gisburne
How sick, the sound of everything you say,
The bigotry, the cold, capricious crap.
I wonder when the moment was, the day
Your mind began to shift and spin and snap.
You simmer in a soup, a spiteful stew,
Expecting to elicit praise or pride,
But every evil, everything you do,
Betrays the fury festering inside.
Imagining the man you could have been,
For him I mourn. For what you were, I grieve.
The darkness of your heart, your soul, obscene,
Convinces me, reluctantly, to leave.
A better son, perhaps, would wish you well,
But you are not my father. Burn in Hell.
