The Aging of Anger

Does anger age
Burn
Intense
Sweeping across
Millions of acres
Emotions
Dry hot tinder

Do the journeys
Of others
To healing
Honesty
Require my companionship

We all make trades
Folding
For the red anger
That burns in others

Hurt that punches
And then lunches
On the rawness
Left exposed

But the tome’s
Are always there
Available for revisions
And many fancy themselves
Wordsmiths of their souls
Taking present pain
Misunderstanding
Stories
Lessons
Life
Lived
Inhaled
Twisting
Beyond recognition

We do not start journey’s together
Nor do we go hand in hand
Across finish lines
But when given brief moments
Standing shoulder to shoulder
Caravans of baggage
Stunt those moments
That are meant to heal

We hope to migrate to new lands
From the moment
We take our first breaths
Ever understanding
Of our needs
To shed baggage
Transmigration
Into souls
At our peak
Burning brightest

But does anger age
As damage is compounded
With every page turned
Every chapter completed
Every disappointment
Counted

We are unaware of the burning
As we forge steel
That creates foundations
That become unmovable
We hold the bullets
But wisely reject the gun

As arsonists
We treat our journey
As Scorched Earth
Hoping floors covered
In ash and soot
Will allow glorious regrowth
Oh… but we are imbeciles

We long to end
As we began
Blameless
Guiltless
Capable of only good

Yet find ourselves
Within eyesight
Of the starting line
While pain and Confusion
Dashed in forgotten corners
With questions
Of our worth
Haunt
Are every waking moment

For those
Whose flames refuse
To stop

As arsonists
Our journeys
Scorched Earth
Hoping floors covered
In ash and soot
Pain, confusion
Will allow glorious regrowth
Oh… but we are imbeciles

We long to end
As we began
Blameless
Guiltless
Capable of only good

Yet find ourselves
Within eyesight
Of the starting line
While regret and lies
Dashed in forgotten corners
Loaded with questions
Of our worth
Haunt
Every moment of our journey

For those
Whose flames refuse
To stop dancing
The anger
Never loosens its grip
And they are left
On those journeys alone

If anger ages
I am afraid

Idle Paws

There is a hole
Located in the back corner
Behind the shed
Where wild virginia creeper grow

Undetected by man
Rotten
Six inches wide
Passage against the soil

There is a dog
Weed high at the shoulders
White behind the head
Where neck connects with the body

Disenchanted at the mundane
Void of inspiration
The biosphere of boredom
Presented in all its insignificance

Bright mornings
Alone
Exploring the blasé
Devices left to meddle
Idle paws
Criminality tendencies
Creep in like the Virginian

The old factory
That is the olfactory
Fires and catalogs
Along the path to unfamiliar lands

Eyes closed
Senses on high
Head torpedoed
Through walls of green

At last
Vespucci’s New World
Lays before her
With palate punches
Of undiscovered fields of vision