Wrath of Man, Call Upon Thee

Jack Scholtes

The tendrils of rage are not broken easily

Red hot, as they bind their roots, swallow flesh

Thorns forcing bribes from blood drawn

Searing is the rage that binds, that runs deep

 

A sight worse than death proceeds its reek

Bellowing calls force vermin from their cave

Holes emerge from dirt, deliver teeth and claw

Burrowing from soil to meat, ripe is the fruit that resists

 

The marked fear remains plastered on walls

Burned cloth, stricken with noise and dejection

Hands buried in quicksand, escape remains below

Relinquish thy hand, fall to thy fate

 

The fire can’t be stoked now, rage has spilled on its stones

Clouds of red, a sickly scent to drive one mad

Rain eating at thy skin, give way to the loch within

Shivering, seething, feeling, give peace upon me

 

Place your mind back in the cell, look within from out

Twisted steel tethered your bones, fragmented your soul

Rock macerates keys that lay upon your arms

Eyes crying faceted tears, blinding is the glow

 

Desire the sky, reach the ground, kaleidoscope your world

Gone is the rage, away with the heat,

Joy is secure, renew the burning hearth,

 

Iridescent forgiveness shines from the smoke