Rage stands where the sun gets its warmth,
its distanced welcoming
in the tunnel on the dark greyest path behind the house
I grew up in, cold and shaded and
hidden from the outside world.
Mufasa said, "Anything the light touches is our kingdom."
I'm from the shadows, uncontained,
like some sort of animal, slipped and
fallen through the grips of Gods
trying to slip the lid over me.
Not to flatter myself, I would never, but
I've breathed fire
as if it was the warmth that raised me.
I've been inviting, invited, and
the space between where everyone knows your name
and you are a stranger
to the world around you, a construct
constructed to restrict,
restriking the broken lid above,
worshiping the man
that gave you everything you aren't.
Do not follow me
I do not know your name,
mine is rage.