The weight of wrath

Revenge is anger’s child,
born of wounds—real or dreamed.
A message sent from soul to self,
yet lost when ego claims its throne,
mistaking survival for its sacred charge.
The mind’s voice whispers, loud and lone,
emotions wild, untamed, unchecked.

Hands strike, the world fractures,
a spiral of pain, no end, no peace—
only echoes of wisdom drowned in noise.
No victor stands where vengeance walks,
just hollow hearts and shattered ground,
chaos blooming where harmony died.

Pride and fear chain courage down,
leaving bitterness to fester deep,
a soul choked on swallowed grief,
its light dimmed by the ego’s feast.

But what if the ego learned to kneel?
To listen, question, seek the root:
Was the harm true?
Why does the wound still scream?
What hands outside, what shadows in
stirred the storm?

Did the mind dare to test its truth,
or let the lie take hold?
To serve, to shield—not rule, not steal—
that is the soul’s quiet plea.
To grow, to glow, to break the wheel,
and let the heart, at last, be free.