Dig fingernails into palm
an aura of rage disquiets calm
teeth ground finely into dust
an era, an age broken chains of trust
breathing air freely, finally through a punctured lung
who are you that bites your thumb, saying I must bite my tongue?

Bide your time, for what is life if not time over reality
and reality if not perception over varied experiences
one balled fist, cherry-red knuckles, raised bottoms-up, always lowly
always knowing to go right to where the consensus of common sense is
steer the path of wrath, answer when the brass rings with theoretical equations in moral math
the shortest distance between two points is irrelevant when every minute of every day
is planned around the uphill struggle you have along the way

Ideas to further us,
wayside trinkets for those who follow
let the mad do battle with the angry until they turn murderous
they reside in the misery leftover of concrete; now mires of mud to wallow
admirers of survivors, secretly in love with a disaster whose burden laid on them here and now is not one anybody should be asked to master
you cannot prepare to lose everything, bunkers, guns, armor, nothing you have will make the pain pass faster
fate is an excuse abused by weak will and minds, they surrender the consequences of everything they do, that is done, to four letters

I have heard the worst and best moments of my life were fated
these notes, passed in sympathetic epitaphs from retired, retread hatred
the energy of the young man who would see this blue marble lost with all the rest
is refocused, as through a prism of detached and severed disinterest
I feel much older than I am, and like a sponge I absorb the colors and sights and sounds of the natural world around me
as I train my train of thought to stay on track, my wild emotions would wring me dry and misunderstood reactions would confound me

The virtue of solace just at arm's reach
never to fall too involved,
but to survive and inspire those to uplift, with an aligned love for each.