WRATH is driving away late at night, fists clenched, alcohol racing through your veins like a grand prix, thoughts raging like thunder booming outside, rain washing away the trail of fire left in your wake, flashes of lightening intermingling with hazy, muted colors of the stoplights, and you’re in your car, going faster than time on fast forward, blurring past looming trees and buildings until the landscape is nothing more than an old painting smearing from your tears and you’re driving, foot on the accelerator, pushing 60, 70, 80, until the numbers start to fade and you try to focus on the road because you have to or not you’ll be back to thinking again -even with all that whiskey burning your throat into sandpaper and all that *** blazing away the garden of Eden in your mind- and you’ll still be back to thinking, thinking about all the pain living inside your wiry skeleton and you can’t get away from it, no matter how far you drive or how fast you go or how much you drink, and you’ll slam your fists on the wheel with frustration and force 100, 110, 120, watching the rain plummet onto your windshield and you’ll cry and sob and rage -oh utter agony- and you’ll be so angry, so tortured, so enraged with yourself and the world and the awful, crooked pain that you won’t even care that you’ve spun out of control and slammed head first into a glass waterfall of ignorance and oblivion you’ve craved for because pain can’t overcome the power of wrath when it takes hold and taints your blood on the street.