The Shadow's Scythe

It begins a whisper, a narrowing of the eye, a tiny seed of poison planted in the fertile dark. Hate. It feeds on difference, on rumor, on the unsaid fear, bloating silently, a tumor of the soul. Then, the bloom: a barbed word, a fist clenched tight, a sudden shove, a fire in the street. The breaking of glass, the shattering of trust. It carves canyons between neighbors, between families, between nations. The mirror cracks, reflecting only monsters. The consequences? A barren field where laughter died, a silence where voices once sang. Walls rise, invisible yet solid, trapping us in separate cells of rage. The air grows thin, choked by ashes of what was. And in the end, hate always consumes its own genesis, leaving behind only the cold, hollow ache of what could have been. ©bfa052325