These words are serial killers, and I intend to kill
anyone who veers off the path.
These words are jumping jacks, and I intend to hold onto
these childish things for as long as they preserve a path toward righteous
indignation.
We wish, stumble and crash.
We plot, scheme and pray.
We win, lose and draw.
These words are blanket reminders of what once was, long
before God jumped ship and Christ was handed a raw deal.
These words are burnt offerings from another time and
place when the past, present and future were locked in the same cell and a
skeleton key was swallowed by a great whale.
These words are beta blockers keeping you alive just long
enough to face the inconvenient truth that no one here gets out alive.
We piss, moan and vent.
We howl, cackle and roar.
We descend, drop away, and go downhill.
These words are stowaways, and I intend to make a break
for it as soon as I find my sea legs.
These words are coordinates on a map and I intend to pinpoint
Shangri-La before I am consumed by all these lost horizons.
These words are bullet points in a PowerPoint
presentation impressing no one and getting me no further than the next fork in
the road.
Charles Cicirella
7/19/14
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