“If you give them enough rope, they’ll hang themselves.”--Mr. Williams, American Political Systems, 1.30.12
I was tied by hands that knew my own
from smaller joints to how they’ve grown.
I fell clean on a clammy street
that punched me back in my defeat.
I looked around to spot my foe
that struck me with a backwards blow
and saw a figure by a tree
that stood not far away from me.
I saw him sitting, not in black,
but clothed in grace that I now lack.
I saw his outline, head cast low.
He did not sparkle, shine, or glow.
His head rose slowly towards the light
until his eyes were in my sight.
I recognized his rigid eyes,
his sullen stare, not a disguise,
not a reaper, ghoul, or ghost,
nor any demon I feared the most,
but me—past tense—below the tree
watched me—here, now—in apathy.
His eyes shot through me with his stare
that turned me cold in summer air.
Then he rose and walked towards me
and I, desperate, began to plea
to spare my life and release my hands
so I could continue with my plans.
He said nothing; he smelled of grace
that softened his adolescent face.
A rope extended within his clutch
and plans no longer mattered much.
I could not change it, but regret
filled the moment with vignette.
He came at me, I caught his eye,
he did not even answer why,
and then, with desperate severity,
I stole myself away from me.