Just A Thank-You.

When gripped by rage, incensed by vulgar fears,

and apt to curse a face I have caressed,

to spoil a loved one's cheeks with ugly tears,

your envisaged glee can my wrath arrest.

When my few true treasures I would debase,

—those staunch few in a world of passers-by—

thought of the satisfaction on your face

is quite enough my wits to pacify.

And when the ultimate desecration,

slaying of self, I ponder gravely,

more than any moral reservation,

the wish to last, to see you down, saves me.

For such restraint upon my ill intent,

thank you, my enemies, both real and dreamt.