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Do not the thought of vengeance entertain,
A guest intent your person to consume,
Until few dregs of self-respect remain,
And gracious honour finds an empty room;
Pursuit of recompense, a tortuous route,
Is littered with the shards of broken dreams;
Traversing vile terrain can be a brute,
Assailing hapless with nightmarish screams;
Richer, by far, the more enduring trove
Of virtue, that, within the soul resides,
Like luscious fruit within celestial grove,
Requital in domain of God abides.
Reprisals have the custom to return,
Of hand that wields the fire, the fingers burn.
© Meanderings 2017
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Autumn Ambles 