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Getting Back on Our Game
Burnt corners on a loose leaf page
ebb up
like skin-crawling tarantulas.
Poison is delivered
dead center
in dormant sacs of sin.
It festers.
It pesters us
We just wanna be
clean...
Brothers, we're turning
black and green.
Eroding before
the burning.
Dance the dance
of circumstance.
And we can blame
everything on the rain,
saying,
Where is the shower you promised?
Where is the solace?
The Love that washes away
the grime?
Where is the carrier pigeon
with messages of
frozen Time?
Where galaxies revolve
like giant basketballs
upon a fingered minute.
And we feel eternal spin
in every second
specked within it.
So much
mammothly ingrained
deep inside a single moment.
If we'd only
just disown it
and prioritize our game.
Patiently waiting
to be called out
to play
by the Master Coach.
Where angels referee
our every step
if we just trust the host.
