Rage

A small ember,

Stoked by spoken word,

A flame awoken from a deep slumber.

 An open hand,

Closed and wrenched in upon itself.

What once held hope within, now can only bear a grain of sand.

Rage, rage, that sleeping giant,

That comes from within all of us with no expectation.

 Of all that you may hold dear, he stands defiant.

Whimsical and careless, he storms about,

Fuming and destroying all at will.

For, with his great might, we are all empowered, made quite stout.

Rage, he has destroyed friendships, conquered enemies.

A useful tool, but a dangerous friend.

Careless he is, for he is focused with his intensities.

No more, rage.

Thou art not my friend.

No bridle can hold you, no calm can stay you, nothing can assuage.

If only, I could be free of you, unfretful of thy appearing,

But alas, you emerge most untimely.

And the damage you have wrought can only leave me in pain, most searing.