Vigorously flow the streams of rust and salt
when you laid your hands upon me and mine.
splaid out before you, aghast and sundered
amidst that dancing blade of bitterness
you humbly wielded each unplanned attack.
Face of mine own Confessor tried to balk
idly while voices lost around pantomime
of smoke-filled rooms and mirrors enumbered.
The only foreigner was my own self.
I close my eyes; I should have known better.
What difference will a day or two make
to count back the number of the mistakes
where words are lost in imagination
and what should be rage brings only musings
and disappointment, maybe resentment.
Revisit the past in the morrow tide.
come inside and give everything you are
or be sanctified in misgiving id.
Dispel notions of possibility
For this is the way things are meant to be.