Misery

Anger is in the calm

the gentle waves 

the pull of a strong breeze 

in all the summer's red, red

berries.

Tangled in my hair 

down the cracks in my lips 

like I could shatter 

with the touch of innocent 

hands. 

Blood runs hot and wild 

into a heart less traveled 

sewn with lemon grass 

held together by lucky, old 

and gory magic.

Ancient love hides away

in tall reeds 

along deep, brass rivers 

in the bee hives, in the trees and 

anywhere really.

Anger is in the calm 

before the rushing gale 

before the tearing and fighting 

before death itself.