Bigger Than Themselves

They tend the fire of their hatred,
even as the smoke blinds their own eyes.
They pour every trembling fear,
every brittle hurt,
into the roaring blaze,
feeding it more than they feed themselves.

They patch their wounds with blame,
shouting into the hollow sky,
making the anger bigger,
making the cost invisible.

They would rather choke on the ashes
than share the air.
Rather tear down the bridge
than admit they helped set the river on fire.
Rather shatter their own reflection
than risk seeing a neighbour's face in the glass.

And still they march—
proud and desperate,
choosing the familiar rage
over the unfamiliar hand held out.

They build monuments to their fury,
carve hate into the bones of the earth,
believing the wound is strength,
believing the fever is purpose.

And all around them,
the world softens—
aching for tenderness,
yearning for repair—
while they cling to the weight of their own undoing.

The future they could have,
the peace they could hold,
the life they could love—
all set alight,
because it is easier to burn than to build,
easier to destroy than to heal.

And so they watch the world wither
through the smoke of their own making,
convinced it was worth it,
convinced it was righteous,
even as the last light flickers out.