Rage


Poems / Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009
Set to carve a wave
I chose a sickle
The harsh metal cruel to touch
Glinting in the razor sun
The mask eye of wisdom drawn

Clasped I the sickle
Curvaceous wood embers
Slanting against withered skin

The wave rose
Rose to the heights of
the mind’s sky

The sickle slashed the air
Swooped down smiling at the end
The wave faltered trembled
Skin splashed salt
The heavens shook in sight

The sickle swung
The wave rose
The twain met

I lived.
The sickle shivered.
The wave lay cut.
Water flowing at my feet.
Ego. Rage. Peace.

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