Anger Poem by Kevin Maroney

Sometimes I see from the center of my vision
a great red haze, an opening in diction,
something with which to phrase in vile plodding prose,
a redness not sweeter than, but yet hot as a rose.

The twine twiddles faster as a cloud builds up speed,
the tendrils come together and form a great dark seed,
this seed spreads towards the sky and as it is revealed,
it grows lovely, big and black, yet dripping with sickly zeal.

The muck, so red, so very sanguine swims before my eyes,
and as I think more and more, I remember that I can die,
at the moment, however though, I remember how I can show,
that with some thought, I might rot, rather than be brought low.

Anger is power incarnate as any emotion,
the question is, should it be put in motion?