The Red Mist

I am all things Greek in

the uniqueness of my rage.

I am Medusa's head - tangled plaits

flapping in a non-existent breeze

as they wrap viper-like around your neck

and squeeze. Did I mention my eyes

can also freeze?

I am Zeus' Missus Hera - when thwarted,

best abort all plans. I stamp, I shout,

I throw things about, possibly

the most expensive items in the house.

I chew wood, spit it out,

lucky, lucky you, if my blood does

not shoot past it's boiling point,

Id hate to disappoint.

I've even driven my man to madness

- I'm that bad, and he that sad

- when I've finished my badassery

- believe me.

I am Circe if my partner upsets me

- I am that sorceress who

changes men to swine.

Mine is the wrath of all the Gods

of the Sea - see me, read, tsunami.

Iam Nyx Goddess of Anger,

the shadowy, shady lady of night

- if you do not do right by me.

I am worse than Chaos

- his tears are bathos beside me.

I am banshees wailing the doom

of those in or out of the rooms

I prey in - crying so shrilly the Moon

shivers and drops her head.

I am The Egyptian Book of the Dead

- translated - funerary text for

all who vex me.

Beware my frown.

Do not allow the red mist to come

down - for when day falls away

and night makes it's play

everything must drown.

By Elizabeth Uter