The Rage Comes

most days i feel nothing
just emptiness
a void, the origin of which is deep within
a treacherous journey through the haunting images
of people dying, blood spewing from holes or deep lacerationsa void which expands to just below my skin

most days i feel nothing
yet, of late there is so much more
so much lurid rage emanates from this void
it pushes and presses against my skin
it tears at the inside of my flesh with ragged claws

this wild rage that presses, tears, and burns
also pulls at the edges my psyche
it gnaws at the last vestiges of my heart
as hyenas bite at an animal's lifeless hide

the rage comes, filling my being
with hatred hot and seething
yet it remains locked within
held back by heavy doors of thick timbers

this is such that dwells within
tainting that which is seen without