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


Brothers, we're turning

    black and green.

Eroding before

    the burning.

Dance the dance

    of circumstance.

And we can blame

    everything on the rain,


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.

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