Poets' Hearts Are Bitterly Proud Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

If only I could control my anger.
Turn it from a volcanic ash cloud.
Into a simmering hot water vapour
From a furry rage to a whimper
But poets' hearts are bitterly proud.
They each live under a thundercloud.
Hoping and praying for rain and a rainbow
Arching, palm to palm, like a halo.
A lightning bolt of electric words
Something - hovering with hummingbirds.
If only I could control my passion.
Fasten it down with more dispassion?
But poets' hearts are tempered, annealed.
It takes years for them to bend and yield.