Your tongue smooths the open grave of your throat.
You ask me why I have no praise for God.
God knows there are no praises from Sheol.
Too much focus has made your eyes grow dim.
You’ve wrecked your sight to not see what you know,
And now you’re surprised enemies appear.
You never saw them until they loomed near.
Monsters must eat you, if monsters you fear.
When we were small children, we were like friends.
We coordinated our different strengths.
We were siblings. We were variations.
We shared the same roof, parents, relations.
Now we are orphans, marooned by old age.
You’re saintly stubborn, and I, heathen, rage.