Rage
Strike like a hammer to the furnaced rod,
emmited sparks of incessant lust
With tempest storm against the rocks
purged deep within the flesh,
for nothing else requites
with such deep pleasure
With focussed beam projected
like a light house seeking souls.
Avoiding all else but that one aim
of gratified, repugnant pleasure
The hawk its quarry,
the bow its arrow.
This guilty sin, its spur
like a rod to lightening
Yet the truth shall find its bubble
and set my building straight.
The heat shall be over, spent at last,
as night falls on another day
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