Beauty in Anger, or a Protest in the Flames

There is a beauty in anger, I think
In the hallowed light of flames as they burn, consume
Red meeting gold, blood gilded with heat
Voices raised like hymns to the underworld, descending in tremors and screams
Labored breaths as the heart remembers once-bright glory

Remembers the sting, the release, of burning
And longs for the fire as it longs for air
For in flames pain is naught but a temporary streak, leaping before lost
Losing individuality in the spark-filled winds, leaving not-quite burns
But only the sharp domes of emptiness and the soft angles of shadows

For darkness, illuminated, is defeat made more beautiful by the fight
Night made more lovely by the struggles of the sun across cold, unforgiving skies
Leaving nothing behind but silver ash, like dusty pearls of memories
Memories of glory, of fire and heat and burning, of drowning in flames
For is not all fury just a protest against the inevitable?

Yes, I think, there is beauty in anger
As there is in the nothingness of its path, in the helplessness of its burning