~ Spoiled Hate ~

It was a dark night,  
When one ought to make flight,  
Fear into the heart at first sight,  
An opportune time to exercise one's might,  
Black eyes in orbs of white.

Here he stands with knife in hand,  
Teeth rattling like the wretched band,  
Skin rough like basalt sand,  
Each breath a tense and tattered strand;  
Within his eyes he sees the little man.

The little man was a wisp in the night,  
No knowledge that he ought to take flight,  
Unable to see that most ugly sight,  
Seemingly powerless of any might,  
Reading paper glossed with black and white.

Today, he offered to another his hand,  
Without spite, amidst the encore of the band,  
On a beach black with basalt sand,  
While the weaver weaves with a bamboo strand;  
Look, look, is that not a peaceful man?

Then darker went the dreary night,  
As he determined to invoke the flight,  
To cause fear to come at first sight,  
As he held the knife with all his might,  
Black eyes in orbs of white.

A twist with the knife, until the squeak of the hand  
Would quiet the sound of the useless band,  
Until the little man lay prostrate in the sand,  
Until life was pulled out to the very last strand,  
And that would be the end of the wee little man.

Though the little man thought little of this night,  
Nor the chance that this might be his last flight,  
As he glanced up to catch the waiter's sight,  
And called with a voice about half his might  
For another drink that came in a glass frosted white.

The little man looked off the balcony with glass in hand,  
As behind him played that little South American band,  
Into the darkness, beyond the sea, beyond the sand;  
He himself was lucky, lucky to the very last strand,  
That he could be so prosperous as a wee little man.

As long and tiring lumbered the dark night,  
His desire fulminated, he just had to cause flight,  
To put fear in the little man at the very first sight,  
To give chase and kill with all his might,  
As red went eyes set in orbs of white.

Few things he desired more with his knife in hand,  
Than to drench the sound of that wretched band,  
With the voice of the little man writhing on basalt sand,  
His breath choking and wheezing to the last strand;  
Such would be the plight of the lonely little man.

He donned his hat and began to enter the dark night,  
When to his surprise, the door opened with a flight,  
And what could be better than what he saw at first sight,  
A person to whom he would greet with all his might,  
But his best friend, tall & strong, blues in orbs of white.

What smiles glowed as they shook each other's hand,  
Never better did sound that little South American band,  
As two friends retrieved that balcony table, overlooking basalt sand,  
And paid to hear their favorite songs, each to their very last strand,  
And such would pass this night, not lonely at all, this little man.

And the man with the knife lost his heart in the dark night;  
For now his chance had gone, there'll be no causing of flight;  
There would be no chance to place fear at first sight,  
No chance at all . . . to plunge his knife with all his might;  
And sadness drew lids half over black eyes in orbs of white.

There would be no blood on the knife in this hand,  
No quenching of the sounds of the South American band,  
No laying low a writhing and pleading man in basalt sand,  
No hearing of a wheezing breath to its last strand;  
Because tonight . . . he wasn't alone, that wee little man.

                                   by  M.G. Maness, March 23, 1989

~ Click Here to e-mail me at:  MG@PreciousHeart.net ~