Linda Imbler writes

That Smell Of Weakness

You considered yourself a complex sort;

 lover (boring), fighter (foolish) , philosopher (banal)

You entered every room with a peacock’s preen.

Your eyes as sharp as a lance,

calculating rough estimates of who to exploit.

Your voice of silk with an undertone of harsh grinding,

piercing all others’ musings.

You felt so assured of a no fuss future,

thought yourself immune to the bite of the rope’s burn,

invisible to the repercussions 

of that handy spite you so freely flung,

as you rode your 5 stars within those rooms,

but those stars were hitched to a wagon with bent wheels.

You never rethought your plans,

had left your conscience with your childhood toys.

Did no one ever teach you all things in moderation

or did you just refuse to learn?

All who were there acknowledged that smell of weakness 

that was at your very essence,

the aroma of your corrupted thoughts

because you believed you could do it completely alone.

And the honesty of it all

is that none of us would have ever care to join you.