Post Rage Now. Coming down.
Throat worn sore, drying rasp,
teeth clenched hard, slackened jaw.
Your nine lives, eight too many.
Feel that burn, after terror,
halted grief, worked too hard,
aching arms, scorn and scorched,
locked in anger, keyed right up.
Solid resting, gathered up,
apprehension, stretched ahead,
horror waiting, sometime later
ready or not, come again.
© Michael L Radcliffe, 2014Social tagging: grief > poetry > rage