Is this wrath? An inkling, irredeemable itch,

Distracting, dislocating behind the scenes

Of a settled consciousness? A wonderment unfulfilled.

Sentimentality making sonourous sounds

But inducing a jerking nightly apnea?

Love’s wrath destined in advance,

Splitting fractal souls, exposing currents

Beneath cognition, fast flowing to

Dark whirlpools of desire, carved into

Limey clay, courses determined.

Dizzying until mirrors reflect only images,

Endlessly spun, spiraling downwards, wrath

Descending to cavernous silence. No fires

Or lakes consuming, simple dark awaits,

The objects of love’s wrath.