Conflict

Hatred slips, hypodermic, under your skin,
while love needles through your veins
to tattoo its name on your heart.

It blusters in where angels fear to tread:
“All’s fair to a soul at war,” it says.
Love demurs, “That’s not how it goes.”

Hatred launches grenades, shredding lives.
Love, shouting from the rooftops, falls
on deafened ears, slides down the drainpipe to land,
crumpled and pleading at your feet.

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