Choleric Chlorine

I know a man who doesn't allow himself to feel

His senses have been numbed for so long
that he has thrown all his eggs
into one square "objective" basket

This has allowed deceptive subjectivities to shade his hope and shrink it

Both its sharply defined contours and stark colour confirm his bleak shallow panorama

Broad Ockam brushstrokes paint his past,
their thick oily layers
suppressing his humanity into abstraction

The irony is... the bigger he wishes God to be measured,
the smaller his "god" gets

The abused soul now abusing those "weaker" than himself

The one once fooled now spitting "idiot"
under his optic shields
at anyone who gets too close

Like the Dead Sea,
there is no life in the pools of his eyes

Heaven help him, for only a host of angels
could penetrate such a fortress