primeideal

Renounce me as you would a graven idol.

I'll ruminate. I'll mope and sulk and mourn.

But then I'll learn to tolerate your scorn;

I don't fear anyone's. I fear your pride'll

convince you that you need to be the giant.

You won't cut ties, you'll gently condescend.

You'll say that you admire me, call me friend,

not understanding what makes me defiant.

"It's well and good for others to sing praise,

There's pro- and con- in fessing simple creeds

provoking the smallminded to great deeds--"

That cake's a lie. You can't have it both ways.

There's fawning fans demanding that you lick

their wounds and heal them with your holy tongue.

It's not a crowd I'd like to dwell among--

bloodstained by strangers, a festering clique--

but your heart's always been vaster than mine.

Had supplicants already heard you mention

this matter, slight, unworthy of attention

now that you share their doubts? If so, that's fine.

They're fitting kith for what you have become.

You've found and lost so much along your path,

but surely you recall my love for math

and how I see the world as zero-sum.

Remain standoffish: please don't scrape or bow:

"After you! Please, precede me, I insist!"

These grovelling symmetries won't be missed--

you learned from someone holier-than-thou.

Don't tell me that I'm brilliant or inspire,

merit your time (in this zone or across

the hemispheres)--your gain can be my loss.

I loved you too much to make you a liar.

But in the case that worst should come to worst:

eight billion hands have deigned to pat my head.

I'd rather scorn, untainted, but instead

I'll let you be the eight billion and first.

The Giant (Reply)