the house of rage

pinioned, beneath the wreckage, tight –
covered in oil and blood, mixed with vacant
stares of bystanders too indifferent to
the plight of the real unheard to get past
their own sense of moral superiority

the dogs are always howling, and
the roaches crawling, here
in the house of rage

we will not call thievery honor,
and we will not stand idly by as
rape is passed off as some sort of
harmless rite of passage, practiced

power is not truth, but
truth is the only real power;
habitual servitude breeds only
heedlessness in the cause of
masters who’ll never even
know your blessed name

for all names are sacred in
the house of rage –
and the antecedent fracturing
of simple trust, freely given
shall not vanish from the earth

but for now, pinioned beneath the wreckage,
we reach bleeding hands towards
the mendicant dwellers

really, the few survivors

of the house of rage

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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