The Story of the Man with Tied Hands

My mind is green like my eyes.
He is not yet found and I no longer seek.
What does it mean to me?
I compare the weight but no matter the size,
pay no mind to the cultivation of incomprehensible things
in the smallest packages
where they usually arrive
on my doorstep.

I fathom no hate, when there is no hit before they run.
The people run from me,
flee from me, like a river away from me.
I will dive into them the way the pain cuts straight into me,
into my skin, right through the world to me.
I will callous myself so this will no longer happen.
I will be the all unfeeling one,
the one that feels nothing.

I will fertilize the terror in the eyes I look straight into
and see through, like a window in it's pane.
And the glass is foggy, quite so, but with eyes so clear
I will see all of the pain regardless,
and I will feel nothing,
I swear to you I will feel nothing.

I will cultivate a devastation so thorough,
so great, so mad, so beautiful,
that they will tell no stories of it,
no they will never speak again of it,
to the kids, the grandkids, the great grandkids,
because there will be no words so truly
horrifying, terrifying, honest, brutal
to ever describe the devastation that I had laid down
that day before them.

The people will fly their flayed skins like white flags
and erect tombstones like tipis to cover them
from all of the demolition.
On top of it all I will smile down at the world
I will grin wide at the downfalls, I crafted with my own two hands
tied behind my back,
and these tombstones they position
will indefinitely ward off the desolation.

But these tombs lay down my reminder,
a great note for the world,
my own great monument.
I swear to you,
I felt nothing at all.
I swear to you
I will return after all.