Condescension

The question of your success comes from an effort within
And has nothing to do with me.
I make my own life—through my own work.
If your bridge is burning, look to your own hand, not mine
For there you will find the match set aflame.
The stage has been set for quite some time and my monologue is memorized.
If the lines assigned to you are not recited and therefore unheard,
The audience’s wrath belongs to you.
Go ahead.
Glare at me with hatred and whisper lies at me as the curtain closes.
It will not stop me from taking my bow before a standing ovation.
The applause will still be mine and I will relish in it and have no thought for you and your bitterness.
Bitterness—therein lays your pleasure.
There you find your joy.
For you know you fail, yet refuse responsibility.
You make it mine.
You douse me with it, fuel to feed your fire.
But know this—I walk through fire and feel no flames. I am untouched.
And you are consumed.
Reduced to ash, for you are nothing.
So take your pleasure in the hell that you’ve made.
It hurts me none.
I shall turn and look no more at the blankness of a land that was scorched for I have neither the time nor the inclination.
I shall look no more at you.