Christine Phillips | + Follow Poet |
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The Rage

Sometimes I feel the rage when you throw dirt in my face
Sometimes I feel the rage when destiny is locked behind the gate
Now I understand why people kill and commit such a terrible sin
The murder weapon pulled from the boat and place quite neatly at the
beggar man’s throat.

 I can feel blood running through my vein and the crucifix waving in front of my face, the pigeon are flying about the place and the stained glass is spilling blood all over the place .Now I understand why people kill to let out the range that is fighting within, and the evidence writhing from within cannot be denied for the lost of precious lives.

Sometimes I feel the rage when you throw dirt in my face
Sometimes I feel the rage when the dogs are running about the place
The weather is not fine but you are playing behind the delicate line, the clouds are swelling in the burdensome sky and the sun is slowly fading underneath. The birds are flying around and I am wearing a brand new crown. Everyone is gathering at the miserable table, making plans for seven point five billion villains marching around the square with pots, pans and sticks in their hands.

If you look across the street you will see something that is very deep, he is carefully polishing his guns, and he is kissing every single bullet before he loads his guns. His face has a peculiar smile on the outside but his spirit is raging inside, he has thought about it hard and long before the gospel began. He sprinkle rice grain in the street, and feed the crowd with raw meat, then measure the distance from the earth to the heavens. His body became an armory for those gathering in the square and lying in the street cold and bare.

I watched the traffic rolling by, the sun fading from the clouds and the mad wind blowing about and the dust oozing in and out. He has calculated every single bloc, every house on the corner before the brutal massacre. I had to pinch myself to make sure that I am alive before that cry and the music in the background is part of that dying cloud.

He walked slowly into the bar on the corner and orders a gin and tonic and a pack of dry biscuits. He circled the head of the minister and the corrupt police officer, and as they walked into the square he went into a sudden rage that took him from place until his armory empties. Bullets bore holes in human body and break up the stubborn party. Suddenly the rage cease but the pain increase.

What is shaking inside the curtain that is hanging above the sky?  it’s the unpredicted destiny that is beaming from the sky. He hid behind a column in the square watching the people running and screaming and the deceased heart reeling and bleeding, but showed no sign of ramose. I watched him coughing as he grasp  tightly to the crucifix lingering under the big cross, as if the wooden cross could save him and stop the blood from flowing. I kept my eyes fixed on him as he tries to slip away from the chaos in the square.

And just before the sirens and emergency vehicles landed on the scene he pulled out tiny rifle from his shoe and put a single bullet to his head and rage cease. 

Sometimes I feel the rage when you throw dirt into my face.

Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2021

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