I thought the loss had left, but now it’s back
I guess it missed the anger on its shelf
The anger and the loss are gray and black
They stain the palette that I call myself
I paint the sky above a darker shade
I stain the fields I walk, with ash and coal
The colors of its flowers will degrade
Their petals mark the wilting of my soul
The loss is worse than weeds; its roots are strong
The anger is volcanic when it flows
I’d like to find the place where they belong
Wherever they belong, my sonnet goes
I think it lost its volta when it learned
That angry words which left, have now returned.