Gods in Suburbia: In the House of Ares

Your anger leaves a residue

in the starched, yellow room

a gluey film clinging to the walls

Cowering here, I cannot help but absorb it

the mind desires to cocoon itself

dread tunnels into the belly like a mole

clawed and fetid, flinging dirt and debris

Your raging, fist-pounding

slamming of doors

screams and fits of temper

are but the sobs of a child

yearning for mother comfort

I should recognize them

and have compassion

but unlike a child

you do not endear me

And so my arms lie limp and motionless

refusing to embrace you

How swiftly nascent joy

dissipates in clumps

like wet gauze

in your burning presence

I can only shrink and tremble

in your Godly, hot shadow

the useless rodent that I am

What beast vibrates with such furor?

even the lion, king of assassins, hunts coldly

with an inward focus

holds no contempt

for its prey

Your voice is crusted and jagged

rumbling rage courses in seismic waves

threatening to burst beyond borders of skin

taut and boiling

Your face, crumbling coal

explodes with savagery

scarring us with words, keen and barbed

lava vomits from your mouth

eyes, murderous crows, unflinching

It's the spark of sin

the seed of war

planted only in men

buried deeply in our soil

but in you, so near to the surface

Some things cannot be forgiven

It feeds and multiples itself in our bones

flecks of spite, fast-breeding children

consuming our benevolence

searing empathy in its flames

You set your life ablaze

immolate your own house

and stand

sobbing in its ashes