A protocol for rage

There is a type of rage of mine you need no revelation signs: no burning bushes nor odd bird formation patterns.

More often that I'd like to accept, my rage is natural disaster, it comes with the pained roar of the Earth.

You avoid my rage just as you rather avoid a thunder storm.

But sometimes, sometimes you'd gladly take my thundering rage.

Times like now, when my hidden rage, a rage not caused or directed at you, is the most cryptic arcane.

Just below the surface a universe is going through a violent destruction and you can't even tell.

This is not a blinding rage.

Days like these days burn my throat raw, and I expect too much for you to hear my unuttered words.

Rage ought to be, like true poetry, an out loud affair.