rage, by DAMIAN WARD HEY

The infant son of Fear screamed loud and raw,
that first night, naked in the streets of pain,
abandoned to the ghouls of hunger and regret,
who taunted him unmercifully
with loose and greedy tongues.

Rage grew up, a child on the curb
jabbed here and there by passers-by;
kicked in the face, and in the guts, and in the balls,
by high-heeled shoes and fancy leather boots –
worn by ermine-coated women,
and the men in top-hats at their arms
who chained the very time of day
to golden pocket watches
on their way to be seen at opera houses.

Oh, I will burn this town, said Rage,
who found his mother trembling in the alleyway.
But do not worry, Mother mine,
for they will never see me weak and down,
nor will they ever, by God, hear you weep.

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