To death of such things

I salute you.

 

I raise my glass high and see the chink

in its armour sparkle with the mystery of

pleasant false respect and in yours,

held down low, sneering in its deceived imprisonment,

the thumb print gripping tighter,

it growls like a hungry tiger, fur mottled and damp

with pain, your glass remains a silent predator.

 

I do not fear you,

however under your nightmare armour

you fear me,

why would you have not taken me yet,