Wrath

She arrives always like a train in the station
Ear splittingly loud and too proud to quieten
Even when the babies begin to cry
She was never good with children

Everything spirals around her now in the
Wake of her footsteps and cities crumble
Until there is nothing left but ashes and
Dust shaped fingerprints as she tasted

The destruction made by her own two hands
It’s an art form of violence that us mortals
Don’t understand, because it is in her very
Own definition: undefiable.

Her execution is admirable, the way she
Steals the whole show with the tantrum
Like waves of a six-year-old who didn’t
Get to play outside while the weather was

Good doesn’t play a factor into her self
Her character is something more of a
Globe on the shelf, only revealed once
Shaken and taken off

Every once in a while to show a wide
Eyed customer this new prize on
Display, she never saw it that way
As magnified irises could never

Pin her down, she fashioned a crown
From glass and brittle bones, took
The latter from the towns she visited
First, quite poetically in a way

She records it all, like Acts in a play,
Act III Scene II, In mid-May the
Young woman walks the streets
Dropping bombs like they were sweets

And when cited she takes delight
When you ask her name and with a
Drawling long laugh she whispers the
Word and asks you for your own in turn

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