A poem for the destroyer. |
You have the magic touch, The silver tongue, The gangrene thumb For sowing the seed Of discord and doubt. You know too well. Once it’s planted, It smolders and spreads, Tearing through the plains, Ripping past and chasing fast at the heart, the undergrowth, Or else rising in pretentious waves. The signal smoke decree, “It’s over now, All your air are belong to me.” You assume I know nothing Of this self-seeking aggression, The desire for control And sympathetic repression. You think I don’t know What foundation means, Holding life in your hands, Swirling hope and watch it drain Through your fingertips. It means power, pride, and freedom, All in one shaky, Ever so shaky, Pillar of Dreams. I could never thrive in a world That thrives on me. What good would it do me To be the mover, the shaker, To wreak havoc and enmity, To lay waste to civilizations, To completely destroy foundations And declare myself king Of ground zero? I would still be feeding on the rubble Which brought me there You call it weakness, I say it’s courage. Courage to know what battles Are meant to fight. Courage to know that through silence Is where I find my truth. Courage to stop, And let everyone else find their own. My strength invests in observation. I observe and I know Yours will all be over soon. |