bowing...but to what end? Perhaps a view from the guillotine?

perhaps rage
is not always a dragon
flapping wings with a force
to bowl over those attacking
screeching roars and feathering flames
in torrents from dripping fangs

perhaps rage
is also a rope and gag
dropping our hands
limp and useless at our sides
burning, yes
but burning silent cinders
inside where things should be
soft

I sit
my fingers buzz
my feet come close to a tingle
somewhere inside me
a tremendous voice
with no sound
screams loud enough to bleed
so incredibly silently

tendrils of what was
become smoke
from a dream and
pirouette in picture perfect
spirals
meant only to bind me
into
my self-made madman dreams
of
deepest dark

Don't let it in!
But...it is in...it built this house
the bricks of blood and bone
make a special, certain kind of quiet

I have marked myself
with blood
colors holding hope
messages from beyond where
I can reach

the rage still runs quiet
not one swing from my arms
no muscles clenched

and yet

the fight
rages raucous, breaking and rending
while I sit inside and watch
praying

praying that the destruction
is dalliance I do with myself
while others watch
a way to break open in full view

for if the shadows consume
if they overcome, overwhelm, overtake
I worry
perhaps my silence will rule
and the open
will finally close
a curtain call
for the actors I am
telling me it's time
to bow