Baskadia

Wrath in a teacup

Tea, hot or cold, like a woman's wrath will flush through A woman's wrath is a cartel mystery A blend of gravel and wool So cold it burns bridges So hot it freezes passion A woman's wrath is tea An overwhelmed waitress serves the whole place, some passerbys even partaking, but the one who's order it is, just behind her, waiting and weary of being served I have been undone in needing calm and warmth I swore never again, deciding to find by myself But By the river you find them sweet and saucy Ben

The Wrath Of Men

In a world where anger finds its home, Where hearts ignite and darkness roams, Let me weave a tale of wrath untamed, A poem of men, their fury inflamed. Behold, the wrath of men, a tempest's might, Unleashed upon the canvas of the night. Beneath the surface, the fire burns bright, A force that consumes with relentless spite. Their souls ablaze, like embers in the pyre, As passions clash, fueled by desire. Through clenched fists and eyes that gleam, Their wrath takes form, a destructive theme. In

Wrath of the last born

Wrath