Reblog : Welcome Rage

Reblogging this to take part it todays Daily Prompt – “Tell us about a time when you flew into a rage. What is it that made you so incredibly angry?”

With scowling brow and clenching jaw
I welcome back this rage once more.
It’s been too long since anger flowed,
with inner feelings truly showed.
Pounding bass and guitar wail
enforces heat and without fail
will cause the eyes to burn in hate
and free the mouth to denigrate.

A blackened cloud that fogs the air
and causes deep and vicious stare.
Throbbing blood through veins within
cause aching muscles, flushing skin.
Conjuring an inner scream
that in it’s heat would challenge steam
in burning form and stinging wrath
and join me on this darkly path.

Maybe I should not be pleased
when anger hits at times like these.
Maybe I should concentrate
on losing rage, rejecting hate.
But sometimes life in cruelness black
will test my strength and so attack
and all that frees me from it’s cage
is hot embrace of welcome rage.

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Writing Challenge : The Devil is in the Details

I know I’ve already posted a piece of fiction today, but I couldn’t resist this challenge… “Your challenge this week is to practice your powers of observation. Take any person, place, or event, and write three paragraphs describing your subject in great detail.”

Writing Challenge

The field, fenced with weather-worn posts and barbed wire, was blanketed in snow. Beautiful in its pure white covering, it was also desolate and cold. Years-old trees were seen in the distance, a small wood home to many creatures hibernating the winter away. The sky was a uniform grey, pregnant with the promise of more snow. There is no movement in the foreground or in the distance. The vista is cold, empty, quiet.

In the middle of this snowy wasteland lies a body. It is the body of a middle-aged man, lying on its back, as still and unmoving as the snow that surrounds it. The left leg is bent inwards, the other stretched out straight. The right arm is draped across the man’s chest, the other out to the side, the same way as the head is turned. The eyes are closed.
The man is not dressed for the surrounding environment – he wears jeans and trainers (dirty, scuffed, with a layer of mud coating the bottom). His top is clothed in a t-shirt and nothing more. Wherever this man has come from, he arrived there unprepared for the weather.

There is a dark, port coloured stain around the neck and head of this man. Closer inspection reveals a large, straight gash across his throat, the two sides of the cut open like a grin with no teeth. It is so cold that there is a small, ghostly flow of steam escaping from the wound, giving evidence that whatever happened to this man happened recently. The dark red stain of blood slowly soaks into the snow beneath the man’s head, producing tiny individual crystals of pink coloured snow around and about his short dark hair. In the distance, amongst the trees where who knows what creatures pass away this winter time in deep slumber, sounds a long, clear scream of pain and terror.