Wrath is an ugly, chaotic beast we often refuse to unleash

It wreaks havoc underneath the devilish horns,
No one could tame it, nor a muleta in the owner's hands

From the depths of ourselves, where it quietly resides in the darkness
It often feeds on the dismantled version of our emotions,
on the distortions love caused about to our hearts,
on the insecurities and bigotries of this cruel world

Wrath chooses who tames it, who soothes its chaos down
It could be the devil's love who brings him back to his senses,
or the undeniable satisfaction of having caused destruction and loss and irrevocable regrets,
We often refuse to unleash the beast, because it often does what cannot be undone.

IA

For God was so furious
          from my sins
He sent an angel
           To knock some sense into me
And that angel
            Has my last name
     and her wrath
                Matches the almighty

Stood, fixed to the spot the man observed well into the darkness
as far as the eye could see. This was his view, as he nervously awaited his flight. The large windows showcased a cascade of gale and rain, like a Russian ballet, some kind of twisted beauty. Looking outwards towards the sheer magnitude of the storm, blankets of pelting rain gunned down onto the tarmac ground. The only lights were from the large runway floodlights, rocking back and fourth as the wind began to show no mercy. The windows take a battering, as his mind contemplates ever get off this rock.
"Mother nature cannot be tamed, nor can her wrath, it's better to let her be," he mutters.
The loud speaker blurts out "Departure gates have now opened."
And, in this moment his fixed gaze slowly detaches itself from the wrath, away from the demon. Away, from the dance.

Squall
by Michael R. Burch

There, in that sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a stunted banana tree,

I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms of pots and pans.

I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble and heave
in pregnant indignation,
turned tail, and ran.

Published by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Super Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: pregnancy, pregnant, goddess, belly, wrath, anger, storm, monsoon, hormones, pots, pans

Listen
Can you hear it?
Through the calloced,
Burned eyes
Of the carcass.
The flame
Thrown unto them
Like a ball.
Caught
With deadly force,
They fall.
Cooked
On the earths grill
Of hot ground,
And plants
Light up
Like burners.
The melting tears
Of a childhood home
Kills their history.
No mark left
To signify they lived,
Even for a moment,
On this planet.

Can you hear it?
The dogs screaming bark,
The crackling cackle
Of a fire ruthless?
Burning anything it touches
Including itself.
As it’s a destroyer,
It’s dug it’s own grave.
Just as any carnivore,
Or herbivore
Takes life just to die.
Just as plants
Take nutrients
From the dead,
So they die.
It’s all a cycle
Of death and decay,
The melting eyes
Bring sight
To the living.
We take knowledge
From the minds
Of the old,
They pass
For the sake
Of your mind.

We bleed on the inside,
Our heart gives us this,
A blood flow
That’s so beautiful from the outside,
But so necessary inside.
Our heart kills itself,
Bleeds out,
For us.
So one must question,
How much have I destroyed,
How much have I taken?
Do I deserve this,
When all I’ve done
Is taken form others lives?
The answer depends,
On how you’re spending
Your life,
Have you used it in honor
Of those you’ve taken
Life from?
Or have you slain
And brutalized.
Given pain
For your own dishonor?
Martyred yourself,
For the world
Is too much for you
To bear.
Remember those who care,
Remember the life you can give
If only you try to.

Be careful what you give
To the world,
For it will come back to you.

With a heart of vengeance,
Wrath