My Rage

The symbol of my rage is a garden, inverted beauty with teeth.

Filmy petals in the dirt and twisted thick roots reach upward

in a gnarled act of mercy.

Vapor of memories float through making shapes shift from putrid to monstrous.

If I walk through without stopping, I am grateful.

But when it’s late into the night,

when my resolve gives way and I yield to watch the shadows of the dead.

It brings a deranged panic to my system,

and tears from unknown depths.


About ingridfalconi

I'm a married mother of three and a published author.
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