Poets' Hearts Are Bitterly Proud Poem by Mark Heathcote

If only I could control my anger
Turn it from a volcanic ash cloud
Of simmering hot water vapour
From a furry, a rage to a whimper
But poets' hearts are bitterly proud
They reside each under a thundercloud.
Hoping, praying for rain, for a rainbow
Arching, palms to palms like a halo.
A lightning bolt that's some charged 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.