one step, two step in front of the firing squad.
the rattle of the bullets in their chambers and the guilty conscience dance a waltz.
the bullets should be silent until they serve their purpose with a bang that ends the world; extinguishes the eyes.
but they encounter a rest in the waltz.
the rest drags on.
the distance between the guilty conscience and the lined up eyes of the bullets stretches, and yet i'm told that the proud look never once faltered. the chin was upturned, the gaze unwavering, unblinking. and the smirk was faint and self-sustained, assertive and yet lazy.
unfearful.
because after all, the rifles that faced me down were not rifles at all. they were a single pistol, and the waltz resumed and the distance disappeared until the pistol's end dug into the soft hair above the ear and was held there by a shaking hand - the rattle of the bullet.
because how is one supposed to kill off their strongest impulse when they are too weak to do so?
i am pride, i am hubris, i am every weak man's downfall. i am there when cities crumble, i am there when armies attack, i am there when scientists play at god. i am there when ordinary men take it upon themselves to feel the right to be extraordinary. i am there when they kid themselves into delusions of grandeur until they can't tell gilded lies from reality.
i am there if they finally realize their mistakes.
and i am there if they try to get rid of me.
you cant kill pride but you can kill its host.
one step, two step.
and with a bang the waltz finally ended.
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truce » poetry
Poetry❝as if.❞ ⤷in which this isn't poetry but leftover sadness. [poetry] {completed} (#135 in poetry 12/27/17)
