It turns out
I don’t like the way anyone sounds.
I stare at his stare
and catch him looking down

“Cauterize this compassion
and don’t cry for monsters.” I lived in the village
and meditated on meditation
until I came to the realization
that all time is borrowed,
and whatever luck he had
is simply what I gave him.

I lived in the village and re-learned existence,
a continuous combination
of teary fear
and stubborn persistence,

resisting any binds
and biding my time,
borrowing lines
in the well that I wished him.

So that when I left the village
and looked over the scarred streets
where stares once meant violence
and quiet translated
to quiet defeat,
I desired the quiet
and eagerly circled its feet,
running in place,
as if in a dream.