Poetry Blog by T J K Conlin (Anger)

Start a fire.

Steal a caldron.

Select the bones

of a longstanding struggle,

and toss them in.

Season with your spit.

Simmer for twenty-four hours.

Choose a raw nightmare;

a beast threatening all you adore,

a pitch-dark space which whispers.

Chop up the heart of it

and scatter into the mix.

Pour out a pint of good wine.

Half for you. Half for the stew.

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