Anger

Anger is conceived among the
broken fragments of life.
Shards of disappointment,
sharp slivers of resentment.
Shattered pieces of former
happiness, distant contentment,
struggle to reconnect in some
facsimile of what used to be.
But it is unrecognizable.
Failed resurrection from the
rubble.  Anger, now propelled
by the futile reconstruction of
what was, rides the vehicle of
patchwork promise.

From the pile of brokenness,
chipped and cracked reality
is cemented together by jagged
seams where smooth surfaces
once reflected brilliant colors.
Enameled reds and greens, once
flowing each to the other in
complimentary embrace,
stubbornly reject overtures
of reunion.  The pieces don't fit
anymore.  Anger thrives on shame
and guilt, injustice and deep 
lacerations of the soul, wounds
that realign the universe.

Stronger, yet vulnerable to
reason's voice, anger is devoured
by brutal rage, the darkness
that strikes with venomous intent.
Not to injure but to annihilate.
Not to infuriate but to immolate.
Self-control surrenders to the
hurricane velocity of invective,
insult and abuse.

Is it surprising that disappointment,
despair, and disillusionment are the
paving stones to disintegration?
From the rubble and the ruin
of human brokenness,
anger emerges,
indiscriminate,
incensed,
intent.

And in the end, rage becomes
the assassin's bullet.