A stranger cuts the line before me,
a flash of heat arcs through my chest,
my eyes sear the air, burn their back.
Righteousness kindles my pulse, my cause.
But when, hands full, someone holds a door,
or a child pauses to gift me their smile,
there’s no flare, no blaze, no river surge.
Gratitude whispers where fury would shout.
How easy to burn when slighted, unbound,
to feel the pulse of the world's sharp edge.
And yet, when the soft warmth strokes,
a gentle joy fails to swallow me whole.
What is this hunger for the taste of wrong,
the electric-alive spark of indignation?
Even beauty, when it swells my lungs,
sinks quieter than the weight of offense.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 27th, 2025 03:42
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Beautiful words Gray and not just beauty and power but logic that seems to fit from past experience. Put them all together and you get a fave
Thanks Soren, I try to always look at the glass half full
You are in all probability dead right. however, when all is going smoothly, when warm and cooperative interactions are the norm, why should I not call out aberrations to what I know to be possible?
Way back when you used the glass half full/empty to dismiss what may have been a facile comment on my part, left me without the inclination to respond again. And not many do, apart from ever present Soren, who keeps this site energised with ever present affirmations. You obviously don't care for interactions here - otherwise you would play the game. A pity, because you deserve a wider audience.
Thanks I think 🤔 Dave. Sorry if I offended you it was not my intention.
Not the point really - I'd just like to see you more widely read...but if what you do is your bag, then stay with it. I'll read but not comment as usual, anyway.
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