The land of ire
is not far
from anywhere.
It is a word
and an act away,
at arm’s length.
It has two seasons:
warm and burning.
The devil was born
in this place;
hands curled
in a fist,
with no face.
He exults every time
someone settles
there, here.
Guilt is the only rain
allowed in the land of ire.
It is a worm gnawing
on rotting flesh on a silent battlefield.
Ballads and lyrics
like bullets litter the ground;
gestures mean,
words with no sound.
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