Psychotica.

Unnecessary drama is all...

Tales were told of an innocent monster.

He simply wanted to be left alone

(Most do when they face this predicament).

But also like most, he smiled, as this struggle was not only his.

His fatal flaw: He offered his lips, his limbs

And the benefit of the doubt, only to bend

Like bone when crushed by guilt,

To be manipulated like an equation,

A dig in the ribs.

 

His lips were filled with far-flung words that were not his own.

They altered his character.

Warnings and wailings, cathartic

But cut-throat, they narrowed his circle.

Such utterances decimated his company,

They followed him like shadows,

Giving him little by way of breathing space.

 

His limbs were bound and pinned;

His variability constrained,

He had no degrees of freedom.

They were set in one-dimensional motion.

Forced to dance on eggshell-landmines.

Humouring the ostentatious energy,

To limit explosive outbursts.

 

But enough was enough,

Feelings or fairness,

The choice and the consequences were his.

He chose the latter, a lesser evil, or so it seemed.

This plague now followed his company, tormented them,

Exploited them, servicing them with an orchestration of

Tears or bitter silence, who received what was almost random,

They were at the mercy of a chaotic system,

Ungoverned by logic or reason.

 

He thought of his friends,

They didn't deserve to share in this burden,

To be conscripted into a war between inference and irrationality.

His only weapon was a grenade without a pin.

He would have no choice but to dive on it,

For he had promises to keep, his word was his bond.

In the end, he kept his counsel.

He put on his white helmet and hoped for the best.