In the Face of Rage
I amble along paths
rutted deeply
In the life
that I have fashioned.
All pine for sunny days
of warmth and hope, but now
an aura tinged with fugue supplants
and haunts me with its specter.
For in the end, what I desire
simply does not matter. The fuse
is lit; the bomb goes off, and pieces
of me now are lying everywhere.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2018
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