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by Charles Carreon
To rage is commonly seen
as a thing unfeminine, obscene,
but when you show us how you really feel,
it's more stimulating than when you seem serene.
To rage is rarely done in
public, still less often
With those of dull wit, but the pleasure of passion
never passes from fashion in the palaces of pain.
To rage without a limit,
without rein, is something timid souls
Can't but disdain, so they linger at the edges, fingering
The lemon wedges, till at last their final hour's passed away.
Of rage I've known the
flower, the exulting, burning hour
When every plaster idol crashes down, and at the ruins
Of the temple, I cast no backward glance,
For when you rage you have to give in to the dance.
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