Monday, June 22, 2009


Some people look forward to God's stead, but I'd prefer a beer and a cigarette instead. Cross-bearers throng dusty pages down my esophagus and I can hardly breath. Promises of a nation in the sky keep you convivial, but it doesn't work for me. Keep it to yourself.


Drops of faith fall from your fingertips like the prayers from your mouth. I am not the current, here to wash it away. Rather, I am the dam. Built to withstand that which threatens to extirpate my thoughts.

No comments:

Post a Comment