Fury

Ehud Neuhaus — https://unsplash.com/photos/rLokT6V_XDE

Most days, it burns, a flare.
And in minutes, what was isn’t there.
Post-haze, i churn, infer;
Posthaste, it spawned then cleared.

Would that this were one of those days.
The burning remains, but where are the flames?
In its place lies a frigid waste.
Simmering away; its ploy to stay.

Would that i were brave enough to speak:
“I don’t care much for one-eyed Nick.”