If I could clad any emotion
It wouldn't be anger
But love.
But it prefers to be naked
Like a papier mache sculpture
In a chilly sleet.
I try hard to put a cloak on it
But it bares itself everytime
Exposing its gentle, docile bosom to
Virulent winds of wisdom.
Strnagely enough it still has survived
An oddly standing bronze satuette- Green
Amid a purple holocaust.
