The sun is cruel when first she rises into jealous skies, over the cities where dark smoke rises to hang like chemical hazes in the blackened mazes of a thousand unseen alleys.
The people are cruel when they turn their faces, and embrace the hidden light of synthetic stars that pulses from a single image of beauty across a vapid mask, cold as glass, their names spoken in strong fragility by the multitude because they are worthit.
I am cruel, writing my obscene graffiti on the wall in rainbow paint that smells of the greasy crowd, writing allowd my hatred to rise in the figures of monstrous tripods to bestride the world like gods, and in a second be gone in a wave of cold compassion.
Kindness is cruel, a light word of complement that scorches, burning like the blacken stubs of torches which were hurled into the depths of a river to hiss when the serimony had finished fading into nothing.
Nothing is cruel, and yet all things dance with the lacy shaddows of a thousand tiny wings of hated insects, buzzing the name of shame until it becomes a meaningless meaning, conjuring the demon with a word of unspoken power.
Words are cruel, as they are spoken into the dark, out of the window of a safe house into the storm where inside everything is warm and safe as a perfect scene within a globe of falling paper snow. Since after all none know what lies outside the light and fire of a friendly warmth of those they know for all are just the pillers of a shattered hall.
Outside is cruel, yet is it true that I who deny what is not with twisted words of logic truly see the quick and bright world from within another's skin, beautifull with the golden dust of a regard that is earned by simply being?
Questions are cruel, shattering illusions of the bridge which only looks narrow from it's center, not meant to cross the flowing waters of a storm tossed river that leads down to unpeopled seas where only the albatross cries it's it's simpathy, justifying those who wander free.