In its full form, anger stands alone,
No accompaniments, just its own tone.
Ugly visage, spreading spite and ill will,
Short-lived, yet scars that linger still.
No match for its form, it dances free,
Displaying its pace, unmatched, you see.
From whence it rises, where it fades away,
Difficult to trace, its path astray.
Wearing many masks, ruining tasks,
Marching from subtle to demonic asks.
In grumpy form, shadows old age,
Birthed in the womb of a diseased sage.
Causing disasters, unparalleled woes,
Ruining lives, where anger flows.
Lead to wars, its fiery breath,
Inventions of chaos, born in death.
Dr. SV Prabhath
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