Turned upwards toward a soul
And outward toward a land
And ****** into to the bone
It is a fricative short of fire
Yet equally burning
Equally glorified to victory in bible times
Equally tearing hearts, it tears into lands,
Children do not participate in ire
Animals and nuns do not know ire
Some men of power are composed of ire
Ire is chaos and has horns and
A crick in its neck that has grown over time.
Ire has great chrome fangs tipped in arsenic
And stings the naïve and the delicate
And strains the necks of the desirable
Ire is not friends with compassion,
Ire is not friends to its followers
Ire is experienced over and over and over again
And will drain the user before the user drains it
And practiced ire is as black and crumbling
As the crust off the meat off the bone off  
The soul consumed

Ire is ages old and ageless
Ire lacks the wisdom of yore.