The Funeral of Hypocrites

They do not see you crying. No one knows your plight. The battles you fought, the wounds still open, the pain you endure — until it’s too late. Then the wolves arrive, pretending sympathy. When you called for help, they did not hear. They mocked your fear, called you stupid for courage, ignored your exhaustion, spat on your struggle. The foxes — hypocrites — will gather when your flesh is frozen, when your heart has gone still. They will weep false tears, telling the world you were great, inventing stories from a universe that never existed. And the serpents, with forked tongues, will claim you refused help, that you wanted solitude. Avoid them. If ghosts could wish, their curses would strike like thunder. These vile ones, unclean in soul, wearing sheep’s fur, living as viruses, parasites, bloodsuckers — let every vile name be laid upon them.