Anger brews under the sadness
That shadows my heart
with news of the riots and
curfews.
Dark Magic is being tossed around
in a dust devil
Filled with tear gas and
incantations laced with
Stinging nettles, and angry wasps
That curl our lips with hate.
I shall not unlock the corral
Where I keep my wild, furious
jackals of hate.
Getting them back in without
being bitten
Is impossible.
Where can I find enough light
To evaporate the shadows,
To corral the dark magic of pent
up rage,
And bring peace back to the land?
It must start with my words
That have been cooked
In this cauldron of pain
And cooled in a chalice of
kindness.
My words are imbued with magic
To heal or to curse.
I must choose my words
carefully, wisely, and lovingly,
For they are no longer mine
to control
Once I set them afloat
from my lips.
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