The Little One huddled in the blankets,
Sweating, with a feverish head,
Staggering, covering his ears to avoid hearing.
No air in the narrow room,
As if the night devoured all the breeze,
Devoured all living beings,
And life remained solitary among the three in the room.
Every time her voice pierced through the covers and reached his ears,
His anger intensified,
Her moans fueled the monster within him,
Her moaning grew louder, fueling his rage.
Finally, he removes the covers from his eyes and rises,
He sees the man's naked body on top of her,
He attacked him with a knife,
Pressing with all his weight,
He killed him.
Then the little one steps out to stare at the eyes of the night, having witnessed the wrath.
YOU ARE READING
Taste Of Anger
PoetryI choose anger instead of sorrow I prefer madness over sadness I never want to be a victim. cover © : SIILDA
