Swallowing fierce wrath down the palm of her hand;
the cusp of demeaned anguish and fie upon skyward
fingers that coil with flames and spit hellfire
at every dismissal that threatens to pacify it.
Akin to liquid gold spilling from the highest peaks,
the inferno that flows from the Woman’s hands
and hails the elements, bending them at the will of rage.
The force of she behind the storm,
hauntingly breathtaking, silencing the world following
the thrum of pulsating ire.
Heed this warning:
Bury her, and she who wields storm and thunder
will spark lightning to the sky and set it ablaze,
tear it in half with a crackle that echoes beyond the night.
Do not dare drown her anger beneath the earth,
six feet under like a rotting coffin or
even further like an ancient, decaying fossil.
It may rise up to haunt you and reclaim the soil
you tread upon.
Keep ignoring the peal of thunder that rumbles the
Earth, and it will rise to crack the podium from
which you stand with a damning bellow.
It will rise beneath your ignorant feet and dismantle
kings and the kingdoms they stand on, until the sky is
burnt a darkened red and the woman’s wrath ascends the sky,
furious at what you have wrought and allowed to persevere,
and ready to reclaim it in flames.