Anger

Anger is a storm that gathers low,
A thunder‑cloud behind the eyes,
It crackles in the clenched jaw,
And flickers like a faulty neon sign.

It rolls down the street in a red double‑decker bus,
Leaving exhaust of harsh words in its wake,
Each passenger a bruised‑shin memory,
Each stop a chance to cool the engine.

Yet anger can be a kettle left to boil,
Whistling sharp, demanding attention,
A signal that something’s awry—
A burnt toast, a missed train, a broken promise.

When the fury subsides, the pavement glistens,
Rain‑washed and quiet, the city sighs,
And in the stillness we find the courage
To patch the cracks with tea and sympathy.