So high on yourself,
so high in your life
that you fail to see the ground
breaking beneath your feet.
Not much room to walk around
anywhere anyway, you know —
it is always so damned
narrow up there at the top.
Seems to me your feet
have been drained
of all wanderlust.
So afraid of us.
Cannot stroll a mere step in their shoes,
your soles planted firm
with roots deep in your hallowed ground.
Chest out, chin up,
nose scaling the sky:
the very look of suicidal pride
for the backlash of gravity.
Can’t see beyond
the stained windows of your own eyes,
outside the bold blacks and blinding whites
of that box you hold your head inside.
Cannot taste of a life
through any mind but your own.
Why does a deficiency in empathy,
a mind cut off from heart
by the calloused skin of identity,
always seem to breed
a sense of superiority
in its sufferers —
and always reinforced and defended
by that surrounding wall,
frigid and impervious to attachment?
When one won’t submit to empathy,
those left cold
fight to deliver the message
by means of the only available route,
the only open channel
by means of which one might get through
to the insensitive:
by those left cold
for those who left them.
Revenge is just another word
for forced empathy.
The cold: it’s infectious.
If you can manage, beat them.
If you cannot beat them, join them.
Yes, but cold is not only impenetrable,
but solitary; even if one manages
to swallow the whole of his pride,
he finds the frigid
to be a devout isolationist.
If you cannot beat them or join them, then,
the only way to win
is to lose yourself and become them:
as one fights fire with fire,
a cold with matching chill,
one tends to become one’s enemy
in order to defeat them,
blind to the nature of their own strategy
as a higher-order surrender,
waving the white flag
in the form of some sick sort of homage.