Raised by a twisted Pavlov's bell.
You were taught to hate.
You picked a side and what bridge to burn,
And now I get to write your name in ash.

Oh, what luck; a gust of wind whips,
and your title tears away like pages from a book.
I have half a mind to reach for it,
but let it slip away, like the dust it is.

What am I to do with it?
The birds will find some use,
And maybe you'll make an ant's day.

And as flies pollinate your dirt,
I get to sit and remind myself:
That out of all you took
What you left, I get to appreciate a little more.