A fountain of rage
waging from the streets
of humans sharing their stories
releasing chronic angst
Perhaps it is more that spills along
less succinct, hidden drops
mortified of their own presence
yet breathing an uncanny glint
Bemused of this layered presence
Of something that anger is shielding
under its mighty guise
trampling in unison with its mates
To rest the rising perplexity
finally spurts a fellow human
'those were the tears of pursuit
cloaking themselves under fits of fury'
but then how far should hope persist
with unceasing relentless actions?
or it is alright to seek respite
to let the nature spin its wisdom?
Will it ensue if I re-posit?
Asks the impatient fellow human..
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