I feel a rage 
It’s not the flaming, blazing kind 
Nor is it the hating kind 
It’s disappointment mixed with hurt
A betrayal mixed with cheerlessness   
It’s a whipping, bruising buffeting 
It’s a faded, jaded trustfulness
It’s a crashing and a burning 
Without smoke, without fire 
It’s the turning into ash
Of something held so close 
Of something tender and so dear
Of a precious, precious thing 
Of a pearl old as the years. 

I feel a rage 
But in its manifestation
There is no acid hotness 
Only a painful heaviness 
That sits mostly in my throat 
Huddled there, straining to emerge 
In tears or in words 
I’m capable of neither.
Even as it squeezes me
Choking, asphyxiating me
In its throttling stranglehold
I’m hoping for some peace and grace
Hoping even in the throes 
Of this weary, bleary rage.