Wednesday, 22 June 2016

The irony of that little stone

He was an ugly child
brute was the word used
taunted by other children
until he learned to use his fists
better than words for him
he had no words
his thick tongue and fat lips better
for taking punches than for
forming sounds to express
thoughts that did fill his thick skull
but never ventured forth.

He discovered his hands could be clubs
legs like tree trunks
as each moment he grew (and shrunk too)
taller than the house so that his mother and father
bade him leave
too large for the village who threw stones
as he fled (and we will return to the irony in that)
until he found his way
into the army
and from the front, ugly still, but enormous
he led.

He was not as a leader
but as the battering ram
resplendent in armor designed not to protect
but to highlight his strength
the symbol of might
the fearful banner
and leading he was felled by a single stone
fired from such a distance
his massive legs
and mighty hands
had no effect.

As he lay on the ground,
his last thoughts passing
while his giant heart thumped to conclusion
was of all the stones
and how swiftly he grew
so that the hands of his mother withdrew
and he found the memory of his father’s eyes
as they stared at him filled with fear
always the fear, a stone destined to collide.

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