Brindled Fury

Shaking, she stalks the hallways:

Brindled Fury.

Jaundiced, bubbling

Not even beneath the surface

Un-stable and seething.

Trying not to keep composure

Trying not to keep explo…

Sure;

So sure of righteous entitlement

Sure that someone else bears the blame

(Actually they do…)

Sure to wear her best face forward,

Sure to put her happy frown upside-down;

Trying not to keep losing grip

of the only thing she values --- sure!

Every mistake is logged and noted,

Trimmed and trotted –

An allusionary illusion of false control.

Brindled Fury blazes,

A super-novic shot of novocaine

Direct to the jugular.

No vocative hero stands a chance

As she burns to ashes

The very bridges that she stands upon.

Crying, she holds her head in painful pose,

Erratic movement,

Must hurt to be so suddenly unveiled

A lightning flash;

Unbridled:

Fragility – that her fragile mind won’t let her see –

Mottled, sallow, shallow, sickly.

Unhealthy as the world to which she screams,

A toxic sludge of slurried slurrs

Character Assassination

Bystanders, innocent collateral damage –

Or witnesses to the crime.

Yet unclear the very same is undefined,

Rattles deathly – furious chimes

of a brindled clock-face – can’t unwind,

Can’t rewind,

Can’t pre-wind,

Unravelling beneath the weight of time;

Which never grants itself enough.

Unimaginably profound pity flows;

There is no hate, there is no anger,

(Not direct or targeted)

No fury…

But merely understanding that fact -

She doesn’t have a choice.

She doesn’t know her actions.

She doesn’t have a voice.

She DOES have a chance –

but not the wherewithal to take it.

Exhaustion weeps, then, from every ounce,

Energy expended beneath the heavy lids.

I am sorry I cannot help you more.

But there is nothing more that I can…

Help.