Beneath the calm of twilight’s gaze,
A storm brews with silent rage,
Unseen by eyes, yet felt in waves,
It churns within, a boundless cage.
The heart, a battlefield of ire,
Flames that flicker, sparking fire,
Each beat a drum of war’s desire,
In shadows deep, where echoes tire.
Fury’s whispers, fierce and cold,
Through veins of ice, they tightly hold,
A tempest’s tale, untamed and bold,
In silent screams, its story told.
Yet in the wake of rage’s flight,
There lies a dawn, a softer light,
For even storms must yield to night,
And peace will rise, with morning’s sight.