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A solution of sorts
 
 
I find a knife in the bed
where I left it.
I have been opening the mail.
You thought I wanted to kill
somebody?
Maybe!
 
I put it on the bedside table, 
the blade glistens 
in the light,
ready.
 
I live in the palm of giants.
Huge, clumsy hands,
where every muscle twitch
carries potential tragedy.
A knife is small and useless
protection.
 
A stone and sling
is better they say,
but I am a poor shot.
 
Tigers prowl the edge
of my cage,
emitting yawning sounds
as I roar silently.
Bored they lie, sleep and wait,
the steel flickering
catches their attention,
one eye opens slightly,
fixes upon me.
 
When the giants or the tigers
decide to finish me off
at least there is the knife.
Maybe you were right,
hell - you ever tried to
stone yourself to death?

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