I am filled up with it.
I could float to the Moon.
And beyond. To places
no one has ever gone.
I went to the water
thinking it would put out
the ire that consumes me,
my grey hair turned scarlet.
I sat down in the woods
but had to leave, fearing
forest conflagrations
too large to be put down
by mortal firefighters
used to dealing with a
forgotten cigarette
or a careless camper.
How can one stop anger
that is sparked back up by
each new day’s outrages,
every pore blazing?
Perhaps skyward is best.
I can search for Vulcan,
ask him how thunderbolts
can be forged from my flesh.
