The Endgame of Anger

I carried you on my back where even
turncoats will not unpack at night.

We’re symbols of flight,
the only vultures to reach
even moderate heights,
as others halt to gnaw on
bones every other
mile.

Never imagined the trials,
in a desert I’ve failed to
rile up the skeletons,
that should soak me up
the way
suns envelop them.

Shouldn’t it?

Guinea pigs of a delicate
square dance with death,
dehydration’s jester
censors us with sand
storms,

his warmth
mistaken for
a moral center at best.

Two icons of isolation in
the throes of
reconciliation
but for races across
deserts without
endgame or
adversary,

just an essence
of you
I carry
everywhere
with me.

*****

The Anthology of Anger series is now complete, with its parts in chronological order

The Ancestry of Anger
The Anatomy of Anger
The Endgame of Anger
The Exodus of Anger
The Epitaph of Anger

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