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Hangin on Overdrive

What is fair

and what is good

stands

between

yon,

alone.

there is

ongoing

misunderstanding

crossing

o’er

 hill and

dale

hangin’ on overdrive.

namely, it’s a tall notion

each

deserves;

as toiling hands

plaster bare walls

forming hardening remnants of past

mistaken identities.

unworthy as it may sound,

tolling my bell

while my other ear

was charmed,

delighted the err.

Untrue, as it was,

that deity You

had your roving eye upon

 was

curled up beneath my

penchant

swinging around my nape

continuing its

break-neck speed.

It’s a dry time,

when the river rolls

piercing our individual solitude

wasting

what small remnants are left

of sacred earth and sky.

Your answer is hidden

within

 excuses made

tipping our hats

as they hit the spinning floor.

It is only then, we ask…

‘Why is it I never knew

those things I prayed for would

fill my belly with pungent foreign

beer?’

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