On the station platform
A man looks at me with hatred in his eyes.
This tired old sandpaper face of a man
with morning hair
and pants belted up too tight.
He walks with a shuffle
scraping his shiny loafers
along the bleak concrete
He squints at the sun
rejecting its brightness.
Then he turns his eyes to the shadows
where I wait politely, silently
for my train.
Am I to blame for his problems?
How could I have dropped that bomb
that killed his family?
I wasn't there, I wasn't born
But hate seems to live
longer than love.
His hate will hate me,
hate my children,
hate change
and in the end hate life.
Those fiery eyes burn with death.
That tired body holds his hate.
Which is to him a worm
eating him inside out.
And there is nothing I can do.
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