I have a little crimson rage
who gathers his little demi-gods
inciting a violent riot
assembled in order
to exact
his welled-up wrath.
His rants and blames
sharply
backed up by
observable trajectory
aimed and arched for the heart.
You missed you fool.
Penetrating rampage,
the bull sees red and enacts
his death charge
allegedly, no more time
to explain.
Veins bulge, blood boils,
frothing at the surface.
The hide and skin
sizzling volcanic
and tectonic.
Flying plates,
slamming doors,
shattering windows,
shards skim
a schism.
Under his direction,
beneath falling debris,
buried under all sense
of which way is up.
Ungrounded accusations,
underhanded maneuvers
defy gravity, suspended;
a salve of dali
makes sense.
The Truth
will always sink
(in).
Image of drawing by By Julio Ruelas (1870 - 1907) (Mexican) (Painter, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
