The filth of life will knot, fry, and
without a mention conceal the
short strands of pure moral faith that
your innocent and forgotten
self read into real existence.
My own narrative, that of the
passive martyr, is an everyday
Charley horse before I venture
to a haven sea. The line, far
off where sky meets ocean holds sure
a firmness of purpose and loss.
I drink less and obsess under
a bright barge. (too large are these least
humored of dreams and desire)
A pile of my hair, pulled out in
anxious twists and pent up bundles,
lay as carpet below my feet.
The listless tradition and axis,
as walking stick to perdition.
Variable to a soft kind
of legitimacy. In quest
for a living definition
of the purring Lion of God.