Spite

I curse the child who bears my name,
For one day he, too, shall face the flame.
Or, worse yet, the bearer could be a dame,
And all will regret the day she came.

Poor child, you'll die, and all for this
You will suffer and ache and never feel bliss;
My dear, you'll have nothing and no one to miss,
No one to comfort you, and no one to kiss.

The angered Fallen whose name you bear,
Will cause anger and strife to always be there.
They'll drive away angels and no one will care,
About the child who's Fallen, a human so rare.

And so, when the truth of your name comes to light,
Trust that your descisions will never be right.
For, though my power may not compare to God's might,
My curse will prevail, the curse of the Fallen Spite.