The rage is building,
A tower made of kindling
It only needs a spark
For it to rage through the dark
And guide a roaring light
Lightening,
Igniting the darkest corners of the mind

In hindsight
That display of might
A painting, red and black
Preceded darker times
What am I left with in the end?
Another tower,
Built with regret.

And smoldering black,
A hatefull pit
Of fire, not illuminating
Never needing a spark
But endlesly burning
An all consuming flame