It doesn’t have to be loud, crowded or understood

Full of explosive power, held in arrogance over the good

Notion or theory of unheard noise, thoughtlessness swirling into one force

Unknown is its equation of voice, perverse to the mind’s rational course.

Or perhaps so sequential, a straight line is its steps

Overanalyzing consequential reactions in depth..

But, for what?


Is a charge so impactful called for in haste of moment

Without perspective to assess in careful the waste of torment

Of one’s own soul, own will, to lead the strides willfully strong

In fury’s eyes is it un-grown to allow such wrong

From within the red of the worst of its spectrum’s color?

Maroon is too lightly bled from impalements, and wonder

How we so wield no cover to protect our composition,

Sword in each hand leaves no shield in blind aggression..

But, for what?


Fragmented soul or discarded blame?

Leaving me un-whole, with no one else to own the shame

Of the lack of control, the hemorrhaging loss in structure or frame

In mental and physical, no goal, the seething flows in movement lame

To its path, steaming and clouding all that surround

So broken, the shards, wrath unable to disperse the cloud..

But, for what?


Energy made from pressure great by such direction

To attempt such synergy from disarray requires no task short of perfection.

Movements demand movement, demanding extrapolation towards goal.

Friction requires surface after lament, useless is burning free coal

Without an input of grace in warming something of deemed worthy

Putting into place a motivation from previously exhaled fury.

Unkempt anger like wildfire provides no safety or compassion

To any, only the furnace of our pyre if we so wish a conclusion in this fashion.

In which regard, you can interject, open the door once shut

Ask yourself, “but, for what?”