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THE WEAPON OF RESENTMENT
THE WEAPON OF RESENTMENT Stephen L. Harrison I handed the weapon of resentment to the mystery in the hills. They took my pen and paper and filled them with their own ink— ink made of lead. There is no pleasure in words when fear becomes the driver and the driven is an empty sphere— a globe made of anger, hollow to the world. On a sunlit day, beautiful in my eyes, a simple thank you became dark words of contempt. But the pen remained mine, and the sunlight did not change.
THE WEAPON OF RESENTMENT I handed the weapon of resentment to the mystery in the hills. They took my pen and paper and filled them with their own ink— ink made of lead. There is no pleasure in words when fear becomes the driver and the driven is an empty sphere— a globe made of anger, hollow to the world. On a sunlit day, beautiful in my eyes, a simple thank you became dark words of contempt. But the pen remained mine, and the sunlight did not change.