Patience Is An Art

I whistle by,
dust with the wind.
Just a speck among the pyramids in all their glory.
They stand erect,
mocking me.
Brushing me off as if only a grain of sand.

I scatter myself,
Like that of a million tiny ants or maybe instead a thousand shards of glass.
They stomp and I crack a little more.
Perceiving me as weak,
But the more shards the greater the damage, the more they bleed.

I hide a rose,
In a thistle of thorns.
A princess and the pea story of sorts.
For only the deceiver shall be forced to drink my nectar, my poison.
His demise my greatest feat.

I wait patiently,
For the opportune moment to infect,
To disect, a certain two headed insect. While he believes he is clever, a master in his art,
I wait to cut him with my thorns, cut him till he becomes a million shards.