Damned to Hell the Man Who Lives in Fear

Damned to Hell the man who lives in fear,
the heart of whose fear is the core of himself,
and whose primacy reigns to lash out at the source of his fear,
sources drawn from a chemical soup forgotten
by anything that speaks, except for him.

May he feel the teeth and claws of those things he mimes,
less than human are his motions, not worthy even to be called clockwork,
but he should be tattered and dissolved by creatures whose eyes
hold no spark of God,
whose mechanisms are solely geared to spawn,
whose palette is built from cruelty.

As a fish he leaps from a flitting shadow,
whips away in fear so that the shock presses his heart into conniptions,
and off he fades into oblivion long before
any sort of death he’d have deserved.
As so many carp have been pulled up from muck by piercing arrow
and dragged, ripped asunder and gasping yet,
into the sun less obscured,
to be dashed handily once or twice on the nearest rock,
not quite to death,
then left half-shaded by underhand toss into thorny bushes-
no less are they deserving than any other thing on Earth.

God damn to Hell the heartless man,
who is the unthinking man,
who is the fearful man.

Damn to Hell the man whose hands build only around himself,
who lifts only to throw down from greater heights.

In softer times, the praises will forever remain to be sung
of the great man,
the kind man,
the shepherd,
the rock.

So cruel, then, to accept silence for the evil man.
Then, does that man truly exist?

Who, and to where, have I damned?