Fear The Faulty Hand Poem by John Stetson

The Furies in all their rage hath not the vengeance in his soul
Which boils like the maelstrom and spills upon the shore

The tide rising higher and higher
til it fills the lowland of their bitter malcontent

If righteous indignation had the power heaven holds
The sea now wormwood should turn crimson in this night

But darkness has this stake alone which knoweth not the Good
And darkness that comes with the noon blots out the strongest light

Til the sun surrenders all the good that comes upon the day
And nothing grows save inky stain where hatred rules the play