She cannot fathom, why you become an easy
prey of anger. Perhaps it is the dark blood that
runs through human veins and arteries over
the times and the changes. She seizes your raised fist
and run. Runs through the lanes, alleys, houses, ages.
When one tide ebbs, there is the next one; ready to
ambush. Childhood subsides. She is still with the rogue,
you. Her secret houses. Her pitiful endeavor
to build a home around four walls one slanting
roof and the resident fear of losing all
someday soon. The anger is his other lady.
She knows someday she will be the one to destroy
anger and her love both, in a single angry stroke.