A source of great evil (poem)

Around him all is still,

the air hangs quiet,

the four walls mock him

as they repel his well-rehearsed outbursts.

A face that would be a face…

if it were not so often a mask

of contorted features, a history untold.

What has his brows knit so?

What makes that mouth crook?

Surrounded by a peaceful, obliging calm

he is enraged, it is coaxing him.

Like a cooking pot left alone,

bound to boil over.

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