Stacy Childs

Born: March 19th, 1976
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown

Iracundia (Wrath)

This raging raven, of a namesake coincidentally

similar to the Dark of a Beast, burned to break

the face of her eternal antagonist, Domingo.

Her twisted psyche, like that of the plastic flamingo

she snapped the neck of, on her way wicked

walk towards the Dominican’s Republic ticked

and shattered along the streets of Piersdale

broken by hopes and loves that were impaled

by a sense of suffering at the hands of a political

promise that betrayed Stacy’s desire for evolutional

human transcendence, but all she saw was Dark

and Ms Childs allegiance to the Boy was parked

in lot of delusions and decadent dances measured

in gutted angels burnt, charred and weathered.

Stacy dashed into Santo Domingo’s place

saw the little twit and expected to give chase

but in his eyes, all she saw was serenity and peace.

Her arrival stirred nothing in him and her anger increased!

“Get up and fear me, bitch!” she razed at Santo,

“Taste my retribution and violent dialogue, moral whore!”

 Dom looked at Dame Dervish with sympathy and declared,

“Well, Ms Overdramatic speaking person with a flare

for unneeded cursing  and lack of knocking skills,

I prefer not the taste of hate that takes away my will

to measure life with the right amount of perspective

and my patience will overtake your murderous directive

in time. But understand this: your weak ass victory this time

will in the future, wilt away like your anger and the crimes

you commit in the name of your hallucinogenic warlord

will tear into your spirit in regret and ask to fall upon the sword

you’ll forge in the melancholy mills of man’s transgression.”

Sadly, this speech did not stop Stacy’s rising aggression

as she proceeded to tear into Mr. Tom with her fists

and his deference of defense wore out her wrists

as she screamed in…

Dragging the beaten angel to her master’s lair,

the frustrated female’s focus on society’s despair

invoked a tinge of sympathy towards the Dominican.

How hard must it be to have that level of patience

in a world of inconsistency where justice is facile

and dispersed to a Race whose need for something tactile

is built upon faiths, values, and ideas drowning the humans

to sway along  to a choir of lies that the people demand

be upholded lest the stink of reality lingers in the open

destroying the faithful and achieving the goal of the Seven.

Second thoughts infiltrated her corrupted flesh tickling

her fancy thoughts of idealism for a second tricking

her into dropping her captive for a prolonged moment

but the residue of disappointment reinstated the component

that allowed her to carry on in…

…but the doubt WAS still there…