The Myopic Innocence of Misanthropy

Like an adder, she rears back,

then strikes, drawing blood with

every pitiless, pointed barb.  

With viperous accuracy she

instinctively seeks the gaps

in her victims' psychic armour,

leaving them reeling in injured

disbelief at the venom curdling

into their very marrow.  The

sheer malevolence of the attack

has them gasping, unable to

respond, other than to withdraw

to nurse their injuries in the

privacy of puzzled pain.  And

she later rails at the unjustness

of existence, a life that has left

her with little of emotional

value, friendless, wondering

why it seems that people

unaccountably conspire among

themselves to somehow avoid her.