Wrath sits in  my pocket, blushing Rosacea
like a tiny misunderstood ornamental figure.
He's the timepiece you gave me two years ago
that tends to detonate when you get too close.
I chain him to the loop of my belt
kept out of reach from the general public
but when you grind my gears for your pleasure
Wrath ticks, ticks, ticks, away his life
until one day, when his brother love fails
to bring him to his senses; the fuse will burn
Boom












We all are torn to pieces