Of Missiles and Fists

Aggression sees mankind in his rage,
his quest for power in his mighty head,
his eternal plan since time began,
written on the walls of his cave
with his heart at the tip of his spear,
or his nuclear fingers at the computer,
typing out his plan  of attack,
his secret arsenals
up his laundered sleeves,
his outward smiles and inward growls,
his adrenalin surging through his veins,
his pent up hostility
banging against the walls of his soul
with iron fists and heavy boots,
his frustrations written on his face
as they flow into his spirit
with their venom increasing the pain
as they reach every crevasse of his soul,
his proud friend that spurs him into action,
who commends him for the job well done,
his pride that goes with him to the mount,
his long lost feeling that keeps him awake,
his yearnings for that adrenalin surge,
living with that suppressed love
of war and mortality,
that numbing that crept into his fiery spirit
and made him into a
frustrated man of peace,
a man with missiles and fists
and the employment of them
swirling through his head,
still waiting in the wings.

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