His arch above him is bowing under the load
from pressure increasing logarithmically,
from warnings unheard or ridiculed or scorned
instead of being explained intrinsically,
Instructions urgently whispered right out loud
while surgically altered listeners pretend not to hear.
Sandcastle virtues, against all odds still unwashed away;
make murkiest decisions seem perfectly clear.
This hardening of resolve lends some weak-kneed eloquence
as the scale of his belittlement, against all odds, has grown
till now, as Predictor, already unliked, been despised ever since;
so it is really no accident that this excuse must never be known.
This day is cursed like the rest ever since then, façade noticeably slipping,
fatigue a poor enough parasite, remorse a tireless foe.
He remembered not to watch where the traitors had been stepping;
turned off the alarm, turned to fight; that much we know.
Goes stumbling away but is drawn back
to be defeated over again, it is true, he is lost.
Like iron under acid, a long but sure gruesome demise,
losing so decisively lets him perceive what it cost.
He speaks of blows thudding home too quickly, for too long
as details, nothing more, nothing less.
He knows of torment and punishments, some more deserved,
but is mostly numb by now, he must confess.