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A not so Able man.

    It is raining, but I care nothing for it. The leather collar of my coat I lift against the wind. It is for appearances only. Long it has been since I have felt the cold or heat. Little do I feel of the physical, though what I feel of the spirit is sublime.

    The Mark is cold and pains me.

    I am in New York and stand before a window display as the crowds hustle behind me seeking… whatever it is men seek in the rain of a difficult year. My attention has been riveted for some minutes by the grainy moving picture of the new invention called television. The screen is round, small and cuts off the top of the news announcers head.

    This contrivance will amount to nothing.

    However, the small, grey colored man does have my attention. He is describing in some detail the successful taking by Allied troops of a little island in the Pacific Ocean called Iwo Jima. Again and again he shows us a picture that elicits powerful emotions from these Americans.

    It is meaningless.

    The bomb they are building in the New Mexican desert will cause most of these efforts to have been in vain. I do not yet know where they will use it, but use it they shall.

    I know this because I helped build it.

    It was I brought most of those men together and convinced Franklin to activate the project. I even gave them Julius.

    Poor, frightened, brilliant Julius.

    Without Dr. Oppenheimer the curséd thing would never have occurred. Not even Albert could have played the role he did and all of it to create but deterrence. To put such a fear into the collective heart of Japan they would cease all hostilities. To demonstrate they must lay down the sword or die.

    Ah, but they will use it.

    They needn’t, but they will use it. Japan is beaten and will fold without the hideous thing, but they will use it. They will use it and they will change their world and as so many times in the past I am the catalyst. Once more I have stretched my red and guilty hand to aid my brothers and as before and before I will murder them.

    Perhaps the landing in France will have a more positive outcome. Perhaps at last I may save lives rather than take them. Dwight has asked for me again and I will go. He has promised to keep my involvement a secret and I would trust General Eisenhower to keep his word.

    Yes, perhaps that will go better. Dwight needs me and he knows it, for who understands war better than I?

    Who understands violence and horror better than… Cain?

Comments

This is nothing more than a little story to suggest a direction for your poem "The Arrogant". It needn't be the one you use, but I wanted to demonstrate that there are a plethora of ways for you to go. I wrote it in prose because it was easier.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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author comment

Great use of word play "Able" for Abel" in the title  and Cain is never Abel , of course.
I liked the simplicity yet effective descriptive piece that tells much about Cain's wickedness.
One thing puzzled me in the opening lines.Let me quote

     "It is raining, but I care nothing for it. The leather collar of my coat I lift against the wind. It is for appearances only. Long it has been since I have felt the cold or heat. Little do I feel of the physical, though what I feel of the spirit is sublime."

I thought the words in bold is some kind of irony, isn't it?

Much appreciate your thoughts and your guidance.I am trying to work on this same track 

Thanks again. Not only useful but very enjoyable to read though it has this feel of subjugation.

Again, thank you for sharing.

 

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

... that although most people would consider "sublime" to relate to the spiritually lofty, they often forget that it does not necessarily mean "good". Satan is spiritually lofty. The first created of God. The ruler of the World. He is sublime, though wicked.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

author comment

"It is raining,
yet care I nothing for it.
my leather collar
ah! of my coat
I unfurl against the wind.
'Tis for appearance only.
long has it been since
I have felt the
bitter cold
or
burning heat.

lesser do I feel
of the physical,
though what I do
of the spirit is
absolutely sublime."

I have converted your prose
to free verse
is this the intention here?
friend Snow.

I wonder!

loved

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