I’ve heard whispers of brewing discontent
a hunger that rip ravenous the sun-baked streets
a wrath to cleanse the aftermath, burn through setback and defeat.
I can sense the trembling of an indignant planet
seething blade-roots reaching desperately downward
toward the warmth of the earth’s core
something substantial before it’s too late.
I am standing on the precipice
others’ expectations waft aside like the smokescreens that they are
static standards standing fast, fleeing soon and flying far.
I take this moment in an iron grip
seize the day and drink my fill.
I am cannon fire with no gunpowder
sheer force of will.