A.C.R.I.M.O.N.Y

I...am Acrimony born.

Igniter of the Wildfire

The flint in the teeth of the grin,

an ember become flame...the spark in the wind.

I slither through dry grass with venomous grace,

a snake-like hiss in the brush, a curse in the chase.

I kiss the kindling...watching it all burn

with a spurned lover’s spite,

turning brittle things into blaze...day into night.

My breath is brimstone, my fingers are flame,

I dance on the ridge flaunting my shame.

I remember the drought, the silence, the scorn -

how roots curled inward, how patience was torn.

Now I rise, red-limbed and crackling aloud,

a crown of cinders, a cloak of blinding cloud.

I will not ask. I will not wait.

I will not knock at the forest gate.

I take. I burn. I bloom in rage -

a fury unbound, a turning of the page.

Watch me write my name in smoke,

etch it with bloodied fingers deep in every oak.

I am not grief. I am not pain.

I am the match that mocks the rain.

So tremble, timber. Shudder, sky.

I am Acrimony. I do not die.

I am the truth that heat unveils -

a wildfire’s wrath, a phoenix’s tale.

Have you...ever burned

From Bitterness.

Rancour.

Resentment.

Ill Will.

And general feelings of bloody murder!

Acrimonious situations characterized by

intense bitterness, hostility, and resentment.

Interactions and exchanges marked by sharp,

harsh language and personal attacks,

and an overall atmosphere of animosity.

Have you endured it all...silently seething

waiting - biding your time

I have one last flame to ignite

One last war to rage

Against injustice - against lost love - against loss

loneliness, hate, friendlessness, denial of my rights

ACRIMONY RISES LIKE BILE IN MY THROAT

I spit the venom where it ignites a wildfire

a blaze born not of spite, but of warning,

a tongue that scorches without mourning.

It licks the edges of civility’s veil,

turns pleasantries brittle, makes silence wail.

I do not whisper...I seethe. I scream,

my breath a furnace, my gaze a beam.

The trees turn their gaze from what I’ve become:

a sermon of smoke, a distant war drum...

Beating sparks of angered flames

I will not beg. I will not bend.

I am the rupture. I am the end.

Ash falls like snow on the bones of the past,

each flake a misery burned too fast.

I walk through the ruin I’ve made of grace -

a crown of embers, a flame-faced Face...

Born of

This Last Flame.