About Rage

Perhaps my best course of action is to

write a sonnet. A quaint metaphor for

this is ineffable rage- my spineless core

craves structure, and I suppose this will do.

If I can limit my pain to a few

poetic verses my ship will anchor

off the shore of thick cardinal ichor;

Icarus knew where he’d land when he flew.

Soles are cauterized on desert soil.

Flesh and stone are fused together- undone

like the asps who are waiting to uncoil

and taste the evaporating iron

From my shallow footprints blood boils

a scalding cup of wine I’ll drink alone.