These days I am constantly angry,
My fury flows and splashes around,
Heaving its red and green tentacles
Around and around,
Amassing in great celerity
At the borders of my sanity.

My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun,
Forever spinning and dancing
Aloft the grass-not-greener,
Copious with yellow wasps.

Prodded by the doubled edge fork
The bile in my mouth builds
A thorny tower of disease
Not easily averted,
Nor lightly illuminated
By my moonless spurn.

These days the darkness claims me
And I cannot escape;
My chaos is making good
On its premise to deliver;
My anger flows back to its source,
That crumpled shell of me.