Death and Debris - the voice of the weak

And the weak one snapped as a bow held taut
The stinging insults he had borne, he ill-forgot
and he wondered, looking at the ground

Was it power? 
that fought and raised its voice
at those it knew to be weaker
That grabbed salaciously
and sought to contain
outpourings of grief
with force and raised hand 

yet, crumbled to nothing when all was lost
and wept helplessly as it searched for relief

was that power or was that the absence of it?