Giving into convictions crooked your eroded definitions of truth.
Fogged vision from the windows of your car carries the anticipation of new places.
Are they really new under the hue of drowsy clouds?
Your boots slosh in the murky justice of self-righteousness,
Drops of slurred slants slide off of the leaves,
And dry slick situations on the pavement.
Your ideas are hollow, motives glossy and transparent.
Announce what you mean!
Drab explanations trickle from the corner of your mouth,
Bubbling under trodden feet.
Beautifully bound, but in a language that you can’t read.
We don’t hate the belief,
It is the procedure in which you spit and stand on it.
Mattering not to the flood if you were born on the hill, or positioned high on your horse,
Flushing the litter down the drain with swift and neutral preference.
I’ll be seeing you in the hazy aftermath-