(He is) Wrath

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another Poem from Creative writing, this time about Wrath

Submitted: September 25, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 25, 2014



He smells of brimstone and the wooden smoke of the camp fire.

His influence is hard to swallow, but quick to arise.

His voice is the screaming of angry bulls, and the beating of the drums.

He is the unburdened horse, red eyes and charcoal black coat, running over the fiery plateaus of Hell.

He moves quickly, carrying you with him to his destination, but is slow to leave.

He is the growling wolf pack, foam on their mouths and madness in their eyes.

He walks amongst us with bare feet, his feet cut up by rocks revealing his blood of fire.

He wears a black coat, torn and ripped from his various fights.

In his hand he carries the blade 'Fury', 

In his other he leads the angry blind.

IF you dared ask him the cause of his rage, he could not answer.

All he knows is his anger, and that he feels the mind of all men.

We are his creator, he was with us at the beginning, and he will be with us at the end.

He is our design.

Our Creation.

Our Child.

He is Wrath.

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