A cup I know I must refuse.

For, where it bubbles with temptation,

Promising a hearty toast to 

Self-righteousness indignation,

It is just anger turned cold

And preserved over the decades.

There is no health to it;

Nothing but rotted flesh

It produces upon

Swilling the deceitful stuff down.

For myself or for those who

Must exist beside me,

Such a drink is none but folly…

Now, anger itself?

That which seems so volatile

Can actually inspire a different mix.

Harnessed well,

Contained in my hand,

Channeled into something of a

Tempered taste,

It can become a worthy force 

In my cup-

A strong but ultimately 

Sweet flavor

To savor 

And then release 

As a mighty river of change…