For what, I ask, do you waste yourself
Raining on a beautiful canvas while it’s drying?
Decanting your acid into my spring waters?
Destroying what you haven’t created?
My happiness, does it counteract yours?
Does breaking bridges gratify your appetite for destruction?
(But all you can hope to achieve is a non-calamitous dent.)
I’m a leaning tower that defies
The gravity of your acrimoniousness
That persistently but futilely labors to
Cause my fall, my breakage.
But the integrity of my substance
Exceeds the strength of your pull,
Keeping me from shattering,
Keeping you from triumphing.
The hand that holds the knife is not
Guaranteed against being cut by its own blade.
The arm that swings the hammer of destruction
Will itself debilitate, courtesy of its weight.