Venom approached me with a varied gait. With urgency, it waited on me to turn away, to dash innocence with my selfish tongue, to flee from Love, to charge with rage. Poison isn't bashful, it dotes on no one. It injects doubt and uncertainty with glee, its wrath constructs thick barricades made of unexplored fear and conceit. It cracked open her tender heart like a levee breaching trust. I didn’t add to its torrent. I illuminated a fresh passageway for Love, a path that curved the creed of the day and opened the gates to her pain; the flood of corpses filling with the emptiness of darkness. It’s not her fault, it's mine. She wasn’t prepared to witness the fetid water puncturing her fortress made by the weight of man’s doctrine, creeds that act as a yoke upon her habitual comfort arriving early. The idleness of sheep digging their vast caverns between inherent Love and unknown misery paralyzed her kernel of freewill, of precious self, and reached its filthy fingers inside her
(The Weaver's Song)