The Giant

I don't want to see him pay that price.

There was a giant in a lonely room,

 

 I met him once.

   His back was broad and muscled

    Yet curved inward;

     Waiting and expecting

  The arrival of someone cruel.

      I met him, but he did not want me

     To see his face.

“It is a hideous thing,” he stated.

     So simply.

       So faintly.

     “Even hideous things are beautiful,”

I replied, and he gently cast a calloused hand

For me to climb upon.

He lifted me before himself, eyes downcast as I stared into his soul.

It was living art.

To think we live in a world

Where we tear beautiful things to pieces

To make the ugly parts of ourselves

Feel attractive

Is a tragedy,

And one that only the victims can afford.