Hateful Thing

HATEFUL THING

When life struck its first blow,

he retreated before it.

But blows never stop at one.

So he kept retreating

until his back found the wall.

Within himself he found

hammer and anvil,

turned the ore of pain

into plate metal and shield.

Gilded and girded,

he strode forth upon the field.

And the wounds he took showed

only as dents in his armor.

On the outside.

On the outside.

A hero holds his own in the face of many.

He does not wish battle but does not shirk it.

He “stands tall.” He “fights the good fight.”

His face may be bloodied, his body bruised.

But it’s only on the outside

because his spirit is burnished within.

Burnished within.

Only, in this world

there are so few face-to-face fights.

He seldom sees an enemy coming.

He can’t watch every shadow where a dagger

might lurk.

And not only enemies wield the blade.

Friends and loved ones always know

where the chinks lie in the armor

that has started to rust.

When does the hero become the villain?

Is it when he begins to return every blow

with the force of ten?

Or when he returns blows not yet given?

But expected.

Expected.

In time he came to enlightened rage.

When an insult was thrown at him,

he sharpened it with words,

poisoned it with his own blood

and hurled it back.

By then he was going armed

to every gathering.

Prepared for defense.

Or offense.

Or offense.

Finally the day came

when he looked in the mirror

and saw,

he had become his own enemy.

A hateful thing.

And for such a blow

there is no armor,

no retreat.

For such a blow must be the last

ever struck.