Sanctity knows us by our wounds,
Which fester in the spirit.
Fear punctuated with regret.
Daily I think of rain, and Death runs his finger along the S of my spine,
Asking about the weather in my
Innermost chambers of spicy thought.
My faults are electric blue,
Grinding on the dim dance floor of mortality,
Making bets on every scratch ticket.
Over the hills,
Just beyond suburbia and
Down a country mile from rural,
Is God
Playing his violin in a tune I may never hear.
I wasn’t ready to publish this poem, but my google docs is acting up, and I may as well publish it while i still have it in my clipboard.
Miniature Moon 