It was in a rage
that Menoetius cursed his mother,
furious that she implicated doom
in the naming of her son.

It was in a rage again
that Menoetius cursed his father,
livid that he’d been roughly hewn
and to violence he succumbed.

It was in a rage against himself
that Menoetius coerced the thunder.
Even before the bolt had boomed
he knew his anger was outdone.

Regardless, he had won;
only with rage, can rage be numbed.