He’s Idle at the Wheel

A prayer might float me over,

tide over the doubts momentarily.

Sweet wine lipstick coat;

apparel for the damaged saint.

Belief snakes in oscillation,

slithering by on its own time,

biting only in choice situations,

supplying venom for sustenance.

A loose phrase to satisfy.

A eulogy’s hymn, a lullaby,

turning a bottle’s ocean into desert,

revealing the brunt force of truth.

Turned over the pages;

each blank flipped a joker,

the edges a portrait of me

as I’m bent to stay inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

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