We dream of anger,
Dream the power.
Dream of the day we get to expel,
Thinking to set us free,
Of the spell.
Of dreary morns and teary nights.
This anger so fell.
At what pray tell?
Nothing perhaps,
Or maybe at yourself.
Or maybe it's something,
Atop something.
A stack of reasons,
It shouldn't make sense.
And it won't until,
It's out, and you will,
Feel it burn.
And fear the burn.
And then dream no more,
Of that power you wanted.
That steel hilted knife,
Of anger so dour.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PuisiSecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
