A Hard and Rough Fist

Whose fist is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite angry though.
He was cross like darkened woe.
I watch him pace. I cry hello.

He gives his fist a shake,
And screams I've made a bad mistake.

The only other sound's the break
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The fist is hard, rough and street,
But he has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmares he never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise a man should keep.

He rises from his cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in his head,
A flash of rage and he sees red.
Without a pause, I turned and fled.