The big man in his head
is small with charity and kindness.
The colossus of his living room.
A kitchen sink general;
maneuvering dishcloths and soap.
Making arrangements for battle,
in sad domestic places.
A tin-pot extremist
shouting orders at the television.
Making everything right.
In his head.
In his head.
But come daytime, come afternoon;
in a world ordered by others.
He shrinks down low,
in a basement room;
selecting the softest of targets.
So much weaker than he.
Does this give him satisfaction ?
We will never know, never know.
Because he’s small on revelation.
Small in every single way.
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