Rage lays at my beck and call
As a wildfire curled at a spark’s foot
It broods, watchful wary
Never weary withdrawn

Eager to consume it all
Voracious in its appetite to end
It does not strain but seethes
A hound fed but unloved

And sadness, sweet sadness
Has given me its back
A distant storm cloud
Whose waters will not be mine

It roams within my sight
Within my minds hand
But away from true touch
As we both fear a bite