In desperation for your grasp
to flee the burgeoning wrathful past
the ghosts of what was wasn't won't
within your mind still rot and bloat

If your own flesh is what it takes
to barely keep the hunger slaked
remain in self-consuming spite
while crowing for your self-made might

'different' always seems like growth
and meaning's born from landed blows,
eyes shut tight while charging brave
to plunge yet deeper in your grave

anger's 'justice' when it's yours
and as you covet it, rest assured
the termites of the past rejoice
as they feast upon your voice.

Several chapters past, I stand
following futures, per demand.
I watch you tout your blinded rage
And wish you'd simply turn the page.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 2nd of Celes, in the year 13 AC.