Wings of Anger.

I will tell you this in the hope that you will not sneer nor have me watching over my shoulder…

I was so angry. I could feel the rage foam in my belly threatening to spill over the brim. It wasn’t as if I wanted this, but it tore at my heels. Biting and snapping, the beast sent me running not for dear life but away from the strife.

In my anger, a portion of it was anger towards the god in me. If I could, I’d show how mad I was, but I knew better, even in my rage I knew better not to. But the fact remains, I was angry, too angry to have the face of a man or the soul of the divine. I was just angry, full of rage unheard of.

Despite all this, I lay and found my way away. I stomped through the lawn in silent mummers, of how I was burning inside, how even I in the simplest form was unable to wake from my living dream and of how every attempt had the masses laughing, kicking or with lit torches, pitchforks or curses finding their way with my dignity.

Finally I grew weary of the walk, the talk and the dancing pain. I sat under some dark cove that I have never seen before, and I began to sing. I don’t know if I had melody but I sure I had intent. I wanted the father or the son to respond, maybe come and see why I couldn’t cry.

And I sang,

“My shadow says to me, your heart grows darker than a witch’s temper, your beat grows faint and fainter. You reek of dirt, you reek of all that you could have done and yet, you continue to find disgrace even for I, your shadow.

My skin says to me, you no longer fit underneath my care, you seem to have so much despair that I cannot find a single miserable beast to compare. My dear, you grow darker as the night walks on, you grow over I, your own skin.

My belly says to me, you make me suffer dear, you breathe in air and brew fire. I must say, I might as well retire from bearing this pit of fire. Dear, why don’t you just burn like the phoenix, why don’t you bear the pain like the warrior King that you claim to be? “

In the corner of my eye, I saw the son crawling my way not so far behind the father followed. The son sat on my lap, cupped my cheeks and said to me,

“I have seen you running around like a hen in search of a place to lay its egg. Why don’t you stop and face the beast? How come you still find anger and rage, didn’t you chain up the wolf?”

If I could I would have answered. Then the father knelt by my shaking body, burning with anger and rage. He held my shoulder and said,

“You have dreamed too long. You have wished too long. Can’t you understand just what you are?”

I have dreamed too long, this I know. But what I don’t is whether I can wait for the fight.

Or if I can even face my own heart, the beast snapping at my heels!

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