(Poem: 2.6.21)
Shaking, she stalks the hallways:
Brindled Fury.
Jaundiced, bubbling
Not even beneath the surface
Un-stable and seething.
Trying not to keep composure
Trying not to keep explo…
Sure;
So sure of righteous entitlement
Sure that someone else bears the blame
(Actually they do…)
Sure to wear her best face forward,
Sure to put her happy frown upside-down;
Trying not to keep losing grip
of the only thing she values — sure!
Every mistake is logged and noted,
Trimmed and trotted –
An allusionary illusion of false control.
Brindled Fury blazes,
A super-novic shot of novocaine
Direct to the jugular.
No vocative hero stands a chance
As she burns to ashes
The very bridges that she stands upon.
Crying, she holds her head in painful pose,
Erratic movement,
Must hurt to be so suddenly unveiled
A lightning flash;
Unbridled:
Fragility – that her fragile mind won’t let her see –
Mottled, sallow, shallow, sickly.
Unhealthy as the world to which she screams,
A toxic sludge of slurried slurrs
Character Assassination
Bystanders, innocent collateral damage –
Or witnesses to the crime.
Yet unclear the very same is undefined,
Rattles deathly – furious chimes
of a brindled clock-face – can’t unwind,
Can’t rewind,
Can’t pre-wind,
Unravelling beneath the weight of time;
Which never grants itself enough.
Unimaginably profound pity flows;
There is no hate, there is no anger,
(Not direct or targeted)
No fury…
But merely understanding that fact –
She doesn’t have a choice.
She doesn’t know her actions.
She doesn’t have a voice.
She DOES have a chance –
but not the wherewithal to take it.
Exhaustion weeps, then, from every ounce,
Energy expended beneath the heavy lids.
I am sorry I cannot help you more.
But there is nothing more that I can…
Help.
AHF Writes 