Rage comes.

It feels like a cold agitation, ice burning deep inside into core and void. It comes. It surfaces.

It’s so ancient, such a part of self in itself. Travels from times immemorial; morphing into saints and monsters, angels and demons, beauty and lust, pain and… pain. It roars.

It changes and remains the same. It grows – wasn’t it already everywhere? Everything? Every moment of every thought into quiet contemplation of blood. Wasn’t it here all this time, anyway? It stays.

It grows. It is all I see. Becomes illusion and truth. Becomes time and space. Becomes darkness and comfort. Becomes death –  Becomes death. It subsides.

It may be gone. Cold remains.