I think often about my enemy.
I worry about him.
I want him to be happy,
but he always seems so very miserable.
Hating me must be taking its toll.
He blames me
for all the dysfunction in his life.
In his eyes,
I am the cause of
his lonely angst.
No amount of exposure to the truth
can change his mind,
soften his heart,
open his eyes.
The poor fellow feeds on his own rage,
loves it, cherishes the anger, nurtures it
as the defining part of himself.
It’s not the way I would have it,
but I don’t get to choose.
Irrevocably cast as the villain in the story,
there is a crazy irony he will never see:
that I love my enemy.
(5- 15- 13)
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