I feel the call

of ancient rage

burning my chest,

powering my hands.

As if, long ago,

I ran into the battlefield,

bellowing a cry for peace,

demanding change.

Now, in the light

of modern suns,

the moldy ground

bursts,

breathing

the fragments of the past.

Rage emerges

from the land of the dead,

screaming of loneliness,

commanding all to leave.

"Let me bleed in peace," they roar,

tears lost

in the sharp angles

of bruised cheeks.

I watch with silent

curiosity.

Holding space

for tenderness.

For I know

Rage.

They are not above

snapping an emotional

bone or two.