Not sure if this is really loathing, but it was the best I could conjur... I try not to write dark poems, but I took it as a challenge as I have my share of dark hours.
I have drained
The green veins of my leaves,
Tapestries and warm colors grey.
Only the rat shack on the hill
With the old moonshine men,
Rusty mustang engines and broken ratchets,
Sip a life of contented foul odor.
It is the clarity
Of the hours before night,
When the streets race and my bones ache.
The silence is made with planted seeds
Sown on the red mud hills
Near my house where I smiled as boy.
I remember sitting with her,
Pressed as two doves on the storm drain,
With sunflowers and the sun,
In the past when naivity was joy -
But this man,
An old fallen tree,
Only wishes for fire,
A clean burn,
To return again to the soil.