The smooth surface stood still, undisturbed.
For the moment, ominously unperturbed. 

Its dark reflection, a sleek, silky sheet of glass;
Deviously deceptive with its eerily placid morass;

Cunningly beautiful with the reflected light
of moon’s glistening shine in the clear night.

Calm.  Peace.  Of a settled ease it did slyly speak—
All the while hiding secrets like a malignant sneak.

Its peaceful impression?  Wicked lies to disguise.
For below the surface?  Resentment did galvanize.

One small pebble cast into the serenity
was enough to shatter the illusion of amenity.

Within moments, the once tranquil surface boiled
with anger’s seething, regurgitated pain—it now roiled.

Reliving every past hurt and offense,
the quagmire of sludge sought recompense.

The terrible truth now lying exposed; 
forgivenesses’ illusion brutally deposed.

The Sludge Pond—a dank and dark repository 
for storing and recounting insults bloody inventory.

A cache of weapons ever ready to wield 
when next offense is disastrously revealed.

The lie of forgiveness abundantly, regrettably clear;
The arsenal of past crimes—jealously held so, so near.

Mud slung about from the dredges of Sludge Pond,
dismally dirties altogether—near, far, and beyond.

The gleeful flinger and the denigrated besieged alike
are filthied by unforgiveness’ dark, deadly pike.

Until at last, the surface smooths once more
Waiting for its next virulent summons to war.

When to Sludge Pond feet do run, tragedy does abound
Filling, not cleansing, offenses into the background.

Oh the miserable wiles of sludges wicked pleasure!
Oh how terrible that it is guarded as vehemently as treasure!