How odd that those like him,
these fragile people made of glass,
are so aggressive,
seeking every chance
to launch a wild complaint
easily answered with finality,
by others with a few select words
that would crush them.
Select words they themselves,
freely, hand to us,
explaining how to use them,
asking us to strike,
shatter them
like fragile glass.
It makes no difference
to me what he sends,
what affront of mine
he has made up this time;
these are mere words
and mere words
I'm ready to give him
as crumbs to satisfy;
when I could crush
him with the words he seems to seek,
the that words he seems to yearn for,
playing this pathetic game
with me again and again.
Doesn't he, the little man
ready to be broken,
understand that his petty complaints
don't matter anything at all to me?
That my hand doesn't bleed
when I crush glass in my fist?
That I can crush or absently feed
him, like I would feed a bird on my yard,
crumbs, now and then,
to placate his little ego,
until one day the distance has grown
enough for him to finally
go and immolate himself,
without hurting
those I care for?
Perhaps he does understand
that he has hostages,
perhaps he wants to be
shattered in my fist,
so that the shards
would hurt them,
if not me?
Perhaps he does understand,
that much; let's give
him that much cunning -
yet he doesn't know
this charade costs me nothing,
that in the end I will be there,
saying polite things
over his shattered being,
one more set of crumbs thrown
because I can be magnanimous
with words and beings
I don't care for.
24.01.2021
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