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My anger now is not to be feared:
it’s a smoldering remnant of the past
that upon a flare-up turns quickly to ash.

And I see how once I was like a child
who enjoyed playing with fire,
lighting match after match,
until my fingers got burned.

But I didn’t see it that way at the time.
Back then I felt like an avenging angel
soaring high above the mediocrity and stupidity
of the world, laying it all to waste with
one sweep of my flaming wings.

I’m earthbound now. My wings are clipped.
And all that righteous indignation is gone.
Burned out, I guess. For any anger you see in me
is a holdover from the past, from a time
when I craved, hungered, lusted, and strove.
From a time when I cared.