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Entitled to (Sheets of Blind Outrage)
He'd been rolled down hills gathering nothing but his lesions.
Wisdom wouldn't coil or pack like snow due to reasons
blurred by pain and endurance of collapse that lasted days.
Once still in a heap at the flat of the land, he might say:
“I'd dare not venture this incline once more until legions
inhabit me like a general caught eating his men.”
Once tinged by perceived slight and tragedy, he's stricken coarse
of mind and palm; driven to morbidity by a force
beyond reconcile and uprooting. But his fists lack
influence and his tongue slacks in a lull. No swift attack
would be regarded as anything more than a small chore
to be performed by stronger types who wield pike and scepter.
Yet when ignited by rage that washes over his eyes
gone heavy with fatigue, he's severed in tandem with light
that's swallowed by night in all of its reveling darkness.
That which has broken in him screams out in a relentless
volley of bile, provoking his ire further by
blotting out this inner-silence he had come to embrace.
And then comes the hate, taught by fear, pouring from his fingers
and blackening terrain that dared shift beneath his lingered
stance - never comprehending the rain that mingles with dirt,
turning to mud the last parcel of footing seen as worth
preserving. The fates that have conspired are beleaguered
by their blindness to any individual man's plight.
Soon the hills that hadn't formed beneath him were beaten, smoothed,
and soldered to a uniform height that dare not be used
as an apparatus for trickery as he had known.
The winds and waters that did him wrong will be next to go,
just as soon as his volatility can be subdued
and pressed downward and outward so that he may strike at God.
