Your untimely death would’ve served
As cataracts within our eyes;
Verifying our idealized view,
Endorsing our biased outlook,
Manifesting our nostalgic feelings
Of your hidden, feigned character.
Had quietus bestowed itself on you
We would have mourned a façade,
Wasting steady buckets of tears,
Bawling and crying over you;
The model self-righteous predator
Who used disease as a crutch.
Burial would’ve concealed your plans
Devised in your mind for many years;
To chisel away our many successes,
Seeking revenge for our existence,
Because of your reckless jealousy
Of the biological creation you spawned.
Your survival enabled us to feel
The powerful spark of your hatred,
Existing in your psyche genetically,
Making us know your true nature,
While you are alive instead of being
Blinded in hindsight by your death.
–by Maria Mocha © 2005