by Nick Gisburne
A storm, untamed, is what she has become
A consequence of claiming she is right
A challenge, insignificant to some
Ignites her fury, urging her to fight
No test, no truth, can settle on her skin
And hope to stay, accepted, undisturbed
Her tortured mind’s machinery will spin
Dissent, disdain, resistance, must be curbed
No evidence, no reason, is enough
For calm, collected claims she spares no time
Tormented by persuasion, she will snuff
A perfect contradiction in its prime
She leaves before the microphone can drop
A practice she perfected: simply stop
