A cauldron of blood simmers on the hearth,
A stew that boils over generations.
It's an old recipe carried from birth,
And cooks with erratic expectations.
Blood is a salty thickening agent,
Good for seasoning bland rage that will stick.
Its sugar makes anger rash and urgent,
And red steam blows from a soup gone toxic.
Soon the pot blackens as hot coals catch fire,
And blood begins to burn in this madness.
And the congealed substance scorched of ire,
Is reduced to a sauce of sadness.
Maybe a better method for such a brew,
Would be to cool the heat before it sears clean through.