there is no more violent rain of hell

than anger at a life lived badly,

the frustration at no vehicle

for release of misplaced wrath.

wrong and angry is

a maddening form of anger.

a desire grows in the lungs

like a tumor

for the inside to explode

destroying the being

with a finality that will protect

humanity from knowing of

it’s existence,

willingly accepting

no redemption

as punishment

and becoming wind.

the silence comes

as a colorless devour…

taking kisses.

wind and water.

sunrises and stars.

and love that was

supposed to last.