“I don’t care,”
Spoke the tall, thin man with a red face,
Hard, dark, beady eyes, jet black hair
And a matchstick in his teeth.
The words are a death sentence,
They destroy like a fire,
Burning bridges,
Inflicting the ultimate pain,
Of throwing away all the pleas for mercy,
Every prayer for a reprieve,
Coldly crushing every tender hope,
Like a flower beneath the tread of a tank.
Because as far as he’s concerned,
“All the begging, all the pleas, all the merits of your words,
All the good in you,
None of that matters to me,
Because I don’t care.”
With cold finality and a devilish grin he spat out the matchstick,
Turned away and let the hollow echo of his footsteps
Do all his talking for him

“I don’t care,”
Spoke the gentle old man with a soft smile,
Deep eyes and white hair,
The words breathe life,
They refresh like cool water,
Healing wounds,
Soothing the pain of old scars,
Washing away all the chains, the shackles of past crimes,
A torrent of rain on parched fields,
They are what is most needed and most absent,
Because as far as he’s concerned,
“All the crimes, all the lies, all the wrongs you have done,
All the evil in you,
None of that matters to me,
Because I don’t care.”
With welcoming warmth he finished,
Letting the ever-open gates behind him
Do the rest of his talking for him