A molten marble, the amygdala,
like a neutron star in density,
hotter than the sun, the third eye
blinded by the radiating white-hot light,
and should I somehow think a clear thought
amidst that centrifocal gravity of hatred
it shall be no more than the anticipation
of my revenge,
fists clenched like the claws
of a crow perched on the ribcage
of a corpse
in a battlefield littered
with the disemboweled dead,
the head of Reason eyeless
and the world itself an eviscerated wasteland.
Ask me not to parley
nor speak any words;
such peace talks are the trifles
which ignite the gunpowder
and blacken the bitter battlements with
cascading cannonades.
Were I a mountain long gone quiet
through eons of silence and solitude
I would burst open with a hemorrhage
of inundating lava
and girdle Eden with a Pyrrhic victory,
and be at peace,
at long last,
as all the magma-embosomed earth
cooled alike to Mars,
quiet, and still, forevermore.
Fury
Published
Tangleroot And Tressknot 