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A Sonnet on Rage’s Empty Power

The number six provokes man’s fiery ire,
Inciting flames of rage without a cause.
Let neighbors fret and quarrel sans respire,
As anger reigns its hollow laws.
This sever’d root bears rage’s ruthless tree,

Where scorned hearts beat with tempo prestissimo.
Tears fall ‘mid blame displaced most tearfully,

As indignance burns candle to the nub.
Fie, wherefore this injustice take its form?
What fuels its causes, false or verily?
With eyes tear-drenched, manners show the storm,
Whilst silent souls withstand so stoically.
Your wrath, a masquerade of power feign’d,
Propagates naught but impotence unchain’d.