Inside lives a rage without anger

Love without murmurs

Laughs without whisper

My heart beats, yet break

To often let go...to often

Unsaid, unspoken, unloved

A fog of strangeness envelopes me

With all those masks of mystery

No one knows within me

Why?

Fear, perhaps, too dear, perhaps

Yet all rage await to escap

A rage without any anger nor hate

When enough happens

A rage will erupt as Pompeii of old

Inner beauty, yet terrible

That is when the rage begins