This isn’t anger. . .

This isn’t anger drumming through my finger,
Hammering at twisted temples
It isn’t anger clawing at my eyelinds,
Peeled raw red pupils clenched close
 
It can’t be anger because
there’s a solace in the moonlight
Where trees play shadow shapes
With a night black as pearl,
Glowing hope through pain
Where clouds sleep over water and
As eyes ache, ears awake
To the sound of hope filling skies
 
Walk with me through tree-lined paths,
Listen to the rustlings and snufflings of early morning dew
Feel the beat of the drum of the pulse of a new hour,
Stretch out fragile wings, and in that moment of
Tender stillness, we breathe again as the spirit sings
 
This isn’t anger drumming through fingers,
Gnawing at my brain,
It can’t be anger because
There’s a solace in the moonlight,
And hope fills the skies