The very hatred

The very hatred within me pulses,
ponces about in flower garlands,
whistling tunelessly, vacant-eyed
and strumming a lute
which is no lute, jigging
up a storm before the calm

which eyes the spectacle
implacably, providing

the counterbalance. The calm
looks long, finally
draws breath and prounces:

You,
the very hate within us
shall not breach the cloud wall
of this hurricane which storms
you in

you are prisoner here
you cannot get out
we've seen to it

and the very hate within me is like
pfft, like I care

the calm
smiles cruelly, suspecting
some trick. The very calm within me
always smiles cruelly, suspecting
some trick, but

it's a little on the dense
side, you know
kind of thick. The calm
never knows, never finds out
just what the trick is.

The very hate within me
is pure misdirection
all pomp and melodrama

to chain the storm