You took your playthings and went home. Like a child. Frightened boy.
They say Anger is Sad's bodyguard. That what a woman scorned puts forth is just heart wrenchingly dropped pennies. Only that they rolled and went lost. No. Hell no. Sorrow rakes your ribs across gravel. It begs you to take your own heart and scrape a shallow grave in the wet cold dirt and then place it there. Cover it up. Walk. Away. And then look for it again in every set of eyes. But it beats back in a field under moonlight. And Anger...at love being awakened and then discarded like wet tissue? That is this. Hell HATH no fury. Gather your torches. Walk with me.
I had playthings. Once. I had my one heart. My joy. But now watch me be carved out fury and fire lit sky. Breathing cinders and ravaging the earth with my steps. I have an army all with empty cages of rattling ribs. Coming. All with dirt crusted hands from their own burials. A staccato march of hollow. We will set the world ablaze and eat other hearts like air. Be frightened, boy. Anger killed our Sad.