Rage

I’ve always though that poetry should deal with things of beauty.

Not rage.

Perhaps it is because beauty is such a quickly passing condition.

It can be so easily destroyed.

Cut down the forest.

Pollute the air,

And water.

Disfigure the child.

Take away his right to play.

Things of beauty when seen up close take on another look.

Decay within.

An insect boring to the centre of the great elm

Algae ‘neath the surface of the pool

Smoke in the cloudless sky

The willful child,

Voluptuous

A broken soul stolen too young.

Beauty tampered with leads quickly to rage.