I mostly begrudge calm people their calmness.
The tidiness of their emotions.
How every sentiment hangs perfectly still, on the walls of
their being, politely discussed, like a work of art, when the occasion
calls.
Always standing near their feelings, never inside them. As
an elegant lady stands to be painted, beside a beautiful piano.
No flaming passion, no violent throbbing of a chaotic heart.
No disentangled, savage, barbaric torment of tears.
No hurricanes raging within them.
No thunderous explosion of anger.
No lightning shattering their sense of reason.
No forest fires consuming their sanity.
No blood boiling within their veins.
No stormy oceans toppling their composure.
No monsoons drowning their resolve.
No gales, no gusts, no hailstones,
No dark, devouring, sadness swamps.
But a luxurious dormant peaceful spring, under a quiet, tranquil, sheet of snow.
