Offense shocks me from my slumber,
as electric arcs stab my fingertips.
Caustic passion wells up in my soul,
and pours out through embittered fists.
I wonder how my message is so quiet.
The love spews from my mouth
as the penetrating, ear-splitting cry
of my enemy’s blood flows down.
Can you see through this tightened iris?
...and now? Oh, the boiler—burning in kind
behind my terrible, white-hot eyes.
Beloved black smoke clouds my mind.
My heart pounds like a war drum.
My lust is the fight: is it true what he said?
He was betrayed. “It will be your grave.”
Mercy is not my name; I would rather be dead.
November 6, 2008
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