Sometimes We Go Too Far
The spark ignites, a whisper of a slight,
A tiny shadow cast across the light.
The mind, a forge, begins its frantic heat,
To pound a weapon out of quick defeat.
The injury, perceived or truly felt,
Is magnified until all reason's smelt
Down to a slag of vengeance, burning bright,
And all we see is taking back the right.
A simple misstep, a casual word,
Transformed into a massive, steel-winged bird,
That darkens skies and blots the sun from view,
Demanding tribute, rigid and untrue.
The counter-attack is drafted in the dark,
A calculated, soul-extinguishing mark.
It’s not for balance, not to mend the tear,
But to inflict a hundredfold the fear.
We marshal forces, though we stand alone,
Against a phantom on a paper throne.
We sharpen edges on a trivial claim,
And whisper ruin, breathing out its name.
The escalation is the fevered need,
To plant a poison and ensure the seed
Of future dominance, a crushing hold,
A narrative where only we are bold.
The true objective is eclipsed by cost.
The quiet voice of conscience starts to fail,
Drowned out by trumpets in a mental gale.
We launch the barrage, heedless of the spray,
The shrapnel scattering, come what may.
The collateral is factored, cold and stark:
A necessary darkness in the park.
We see the tremor in the neighbor’s eye,
The loved one’s shock, the innocent swept by,
The damage done to fences and to fields,
The harvest broken, what the conflict yields.
Yet in that moment, all such pain is blurred,
A static hum, a sound that goes unheard.
For in the grip of self-aggrandizement's lust,
All other lives are rendered less than dust.
It's a twisted mirror, where the face we see
Is hero-stained, untouched by gravity.
The righteous fury is a potent drug,
A deep, delicious, isolating hug.
It blinds us wholly to the fault within,
The fragile ego that began the sin.
We build the scaffold high and climb the stair,
To execute a justice built on air.
We justify the extreme, the harsh retort,
The scorched-earth policy, the cruelest sport.
“They made me do this,” is the ancient plea,
To shift the burden, and to set us free
From owning the destruction we have wrought,
The simple peace we trampled and forgot.
Our agenda, however flawed, however wrong,
Must be triumphant, lasting, and made strong.
The war is won, but victory is ash,
A fleeting, hollow, momentary crash.
We stand triumphant on a barren ground,
Where silence echoes with a mournful sound.
The spoils are meager, dignity is gone,
We wake to find the fragile, empty dawn.
And sometimes, in that stillness, clear and deep,
A chilling truth breaks in upon our sleep:
That in the zeal, the fervor, and the fight,
To be proven right, to dominate the light,
We didn’t just defend, or push away,
But went too far, and threw the soul away.
The gain was selfish, fleeting, and confined,
Leaving a wasteland in the heart and mind.
And all the power sought, the kingdom built,
Was paid for with the lifeblood of our guilt.
