He stands, fists like stones,
breathing the sharp air of anger,
eyes wide, too wide,
the world too small to hold the heat inside him.
He burns, not gently,
not the quiet burn of a candle flame,
but a wildfire ripping through dry fields,
hungry for the world that seems too large
and too unfair.
His voice is not a cry but a roar,
not shaped by reason or words,
just the raw sound of being—
of wanting and not having,
of knowing nothing but the force of now.
There is no peace in his clenched jaw,
no calm in the way he stares at the sky,
as if to tear it down with his bare hands,
as if to bend the air to his will,
to make the world fit the small, furious shape of him.
This is a fire without direction,
a storm circling itself,
and yet in that rage,
there is something more than rage:
a seed of knowing
that the world will not break for him,
not yet, not now.
But he burns just the same,
because burning is all he knows,
because fury is the only language
a small heart can speak
when the world feels too much like a prison
and he is too big for his own skin.