Rage Like Wine

This rage, like wine, grows stronger over time;

I savor it like last of creme-filled cake.

Will time forget –forgive– my latest crime?

Will flavor linger on my tongue's mistake?

Indeed they think me damned, but I think not.

Would they that I should hang for love's great death?

Do they not understand the flame so hot?

Of my tempested boil and 'sploding breath?

-

Let spittle fly! I hack and hack and hack,

As I kill Love –so slow– to watch it die:

It chokes on it's own Scarlet; 'aft attack

I burn the fleshy pile and say goodbye.

We wait for time to indicate our fate,

As Love's apotheosis is to Hate.