RAGE

Pretty grim subject matter, really...


'RED MISTY-EYED'

Gentle post-meridiem, 
All smooth and sunlit. 
Yet turbulent beneath:
Thunderbolts aplenty;
Cyclones and sourness.

"They attempted to end it all."
How does it sound? 
Dramatic?
Operatic?
Histrionic?

In my head, the voice of
The obsequious butler:
"Has Sir considered apathy instead?" 
Sir has, indeed: 
Just before he rejected it.

Does it matter how well I know them? 
Brother, sister, or stranger: 
The fact that they tried
Is bad enough.
Once is too many times.

I look to myself,
Having little else useful to do:
Not a heart bleeding,
But blood-red with rage
At the shitty way of things.

Bring out Brünnhilde
To give us a big tune:
Let the trumpets touch the sky;
Self-righteous or not,
Voices need to be heard.

Is it haughty indignation?
Or something entirely valid? 
Many questions.
Few answers.
If any. 

So should I punch the pillow? 
Or lay my head on it?
I'd like some good sleep. 
It used to be a hobby,
Now it's the Holy fucking Grail.