He had a way with words,
did he not? I agree.

Yet how easy to strike him down,
show him his place
by resolute absences
and that subtle, articulate silence.

Silence, that meets mid-conversation.

Like a gunshot. Like a slap on the face.
Like humiliation.
With the ripe, full-bodied contempt of the conqueror
for the conquered.

There is no irony here, for when I stitch my words together,
I am in fact weaving a mask for my deficiencies.

All of my shrill cries for justice are but a mask for my corrupted nature and base self-love.

All of my passionate protestations of eternal love are but a mask for my basic emotional disingenuity.

All of my counterfeit passions, overeager obscenities, and wordy incoherence are countenanced, shuddered over, and walked away from.

And why not?
Why not.