I am more beautiful when I am angry.
But my anger is a sharp shadow
That files a form both lean and monstrous.
Look at my face.
The storm you find there will give you faults
you will never own or adhere to.
The gray of it will cut your teeth,
will send a stark whisper
straight to your pulp.
But what ache do I have
for souls who roll skittering from me
like marbles from wind?
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