The Others
Not friend of man or beast, or kind to any soul,
not even their own.
Perhaps compassion deserted them, along with reason
leaving not even an even-tongue..
in a dangerous clouded head.
Or maybe found under a curse from a long ago wrong.,
cast at birth or last dawn' cropping season, ill thoughts
impure to many.
Maniacal in gaze. Sees.. but doesn't see,
no feeling left..
if ever there was any.
When encountering something perceived to be weaker,
don't respond the way most would.
As I write this, feel so sorry..
for all smaller creatures in wrenching hands..
crushed without a twitch of remorse.
Talk in whispers, don't wake their ire..
you can't outrun or outlast them..
not in words, or mannerisms, no chance.
Don't cross them, or fall hard in love..
they're already jealous., quick to anger,
always seething, like a kettle ready to boil.
One with nothing left to lose.
You are a player in an unfamiliar game..
tilted off balance of normal,
just a prize for them, all the same.
It's easier to be anyone else than the others.
Standing out in a cold dark night looking..
at the warmth that true companionship brings.
Life's best to live, and to give, though sure and not sure,
were it your neck so close to break.
Be the soul of leniency and mercy.,
send prayers, show kindness, and in kindness judge..
if you must.
Though never invest, or feel too sorry..,
nor trust what you hold dear..,
and never turn your back on
the others.
~~~~~~~~ Dedicated to Stephen King ~~~~~~~~
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