Rage does nothing but wither
in the garden wall
still beating
as if it were actually alive
and not Lot's wife:
turned to salt.
My altar of anger is ash
and smoking embers,
reminders
of the heart I used to call mine
that breathed with desire
to change the tundra around it.
I was going to do so much good,
and now, look at me -
a walled garden
of dead things,
slain idols I worshiped
in my sleep,
dreams of revolution rotting
like rosy corpses
as the undertaker
wakes me up just enough
to suffocate from the dirt
of my own inaction.

I am weak-willed and nothing -
I die and live as a whisper
spoken between the grim reaper
tending my grave
and the grass growing from
my decaying soul.