This was something crafted from anger and accusations. Nevertheless it is written, it is my own work, and I will post it here.
The venom with which you coat your arrows,
only serves to corrode their steel points.
You fire from your craven oak bow,
only for me to feel not one thing at all.
You’ve lost what once consumed your time;
you’ve nothing left to silence the singing seconds,
so you turn to your simmering acid,
well I’m gonna turn to a quivering lip.
You’re not a dove with the olive branch,
you’re more a vulture cloaked in white satin.
Whilst I am coaxing the roses to bloom,
my artifice delivers me ascendancy.
As you give oath to your inquisition,
your indolence hands you to dependency.