Thou Art

Thou art a foul,

pig-smelling,

mud-raking,

ne’er-do-well,

worthless bastard.

Even the serfs

mock thy fortune.

Even the animals

bray and call at thy voice.

Even the trees

quake and fall at thy approach.

Thou art alone,

child of Cain,

servant of Suffering.

Thou art not a rock,

worn slowly down and scattered.

Thou art not dust

that blows and angers.

Thou art naught but a whisper,

a forgotten promise of ages past

that holds sway no longer amongst thy people.

A shadow at midnight.

A candle at noon.

Thou art less

than a rat,

than a flea,

than a germ.

Thou art harmless

and pointless.

Not even an ant fears thee.

They run themselves

into rocks

when they hear thee coming.

There is naught that

wishes to be around thee,

naught that

longs to know of thee.

Thou art scum,

slime.

Wiped away

with naught a glance.

One does not yell at the clouds,

for there is nothing

that will push them aside.

One does not waste energy

wishing the spider

to stop spinning.

One only waits

until the spider is done

and removes the web,

for it is nothing.

Home,

plate,

creation it may be

to the spider.

But to us

it is merely a thing.

Brushed aside

and forgotten.

So art thou,

child of Arachne,

child of Anansi,

child of meaningless endeavors so vast.

Thou art nothing.

That which thy hands make

is nothing.

Even more words,

thou art not worth.