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Wrath

Outwardly calm,
Your face a mask.
There is no clue
To the slow burn
Seething within.
And you speak –
Icily polite –
Words to freeze
The sun’s ray.
They do not see
The cold spark
That will ignite
The furnace blast
Flash fire
That will scorch the soft
Earth of friendship.

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About Hawksword

Reluctant writer, word dabbler...tea maker, coffee drinker, rum imbiber, chocolate eater.

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