Boiling Point

slip my hands

against the smooth surface

of the pine wood.

irritated —

clawing.

my blood is boiling,

my head, fuming —

a volcano erupts:

my hands toss the desk

towards the cruel heavens.

like the feathers

of a bird shot in his flight,

office papers

descend from the skies,

settling onto raging magma:

their edges incinerate.

their core wrinkles.

their tongues scream

— their last farewell.

~

This post first appeared on Steemit.

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