Wrath.

He tried to smoke away his pain,
And burn away his tears.
Held the glass in a mottled fist,
To somehow drown his fears.

He swore he wouldn’t go,
Till the song was sung.
Till the story had been told,
And the bell was rung.

If only he’d been smarter,
She’d still be there.
Instead of broken glass,
He’d feel her golden hair.

But the time has passed on,
And the book is writ.
The shrouded hand of fate,
Has been venomously bit.

On a silent summer day,
He can still recall.
When the wind was still warm,
As the leaves began fall.

As the sun found the horizon,
He’d found her arms.
In the midst of a storm,
She was an island of calm.

But he was arrogant and a fool,
As time would soon show.
When with the touch of a gun,
Her blood began to flow.

It wasn’t he who pulled the trigger,
He’d scream to the world.
It wasn’t her pleading cry,
That they had heard.

He claimed he did not do it,
He was an innocent man.
Even though they found her blood,
On his shirt and hands.

Those Men of God had judged him,
As the foulest of men.

They’d cast their blame upon him,
Time and again.

So he’d cradled sweet revenge,
Like the glass in his palms.
He’d waited time and again,
For the pain to pass.

But tonight was a darker night,
It was a time to prey.
Those who had judged him,
Would now have to pay.

He felt the familiar weight,
Of wood and cast lead.
He went on to cleanse the land,
With the purest dread.

Today he transcends the man,
As he walks his chosen path.
He embodies the seventh sin,
He becomes Wrath.

Note: This work happens to be connected to The Killer, which I wrote a while back. It's a prequel of sorts, if they even exist in poetry.