the anger surrounded by the bittersweet shots of red in the heart,
fuels hidden misery like a gruesome fire that scorches innocent rubied cherries
until they are nothing more but useless ash full of nothing but deep poison and cloudy resent

power is not starved from the drawn fists that do nothing but spurt tunnels of life, for that ends only with splattered bruises and dripping vengeance,
that seep across the murky floor of violence -
drawn fists are void and only causes pain that is only skin deep

the true power comes from the complex string of letters,
a string as blood-red as the blistering fire itself and long enough so that it beckons with its filthy hands,
and calls forth the the blade of raw anger and the shield of jagged of injustice

marching, with it’s sinewy body, it goes straight for the enemy
the sword held up with support from harsh, cold reality,
it stops, and deliberately and cruelly aims straight for the beating heart

the sword lodges in the enemy’s broken, fragile chest and
the world rapidly spins apart, a hasty crack that causes the avalanche of agony
to tumble down through the depths of torture that is slyly disguised as revenge

ticking minutes are the only cure for this kind of rawness called anger
but time is a bomb, only tracking the seconds left before another casualty of war is claimed