the error rate of rage and snarl,
so very high

the youthful intolerance of every sad slight,
wearies me

the political correctness of the day spoils,
both the day and the night,
words can never harm me

who owns the truth?

the truth I belove is the opened arm,
the child comforted,
the kiss of the
parent and the child

not a fleer, or unafraid,
a grown man who has raised his fists in anger,
I defend fierce mine and my rights,
attack me with stick and stone,
and you shall run into my knife unsheathed

but the snarlers and the goose steppers
almost always fail,
choking on poisoned vitriol,
their own petard does not hoist them,
except to the gallows of the nothingness of infamy

I fight for tranquility and green pastures
where all shall lie down with whom they want

yet all I see is the valley of the shadow,
all I hear is the rattling from the valley of the bones

strange is the calm I feel, for rage is an old companion

my weapons are neither dull or rusted,
or put away for never to be used

come to me in peace, one by one,
come to me with chivalrous acts and kindness
spread like thick butter on dark country bread

I will easy embrace, protect and defend,
all the days of my life

rage against the dying light if you must,
but do not deny that rage hasten the dark