Cold Feat

Impulse to
run
like a
shotgun union
was
the drug that
gave
it away;

addiction unclaimed

as all
those I counted best men
I realize
most vain.

Vogue in
the ways
unchained freakshows
ascertain to be in
their nature,
yet lacking
tact in
their plans of attack
to make a
positive change.

But even game masters grow grey, as rules ingrained in them
get too gruesome for
aging souls wanting to die with
clean slates.

I was too plain to govern,
alive with small
wonders bestowed by the
chase.

A last supper of
self-serving laws;
influence physics has
lost
guides me in
playing gods like

cogs in
a cold machine.

And it’s serene, this love;
a religion for one
without prayers,
chants or
guns-

co-existence of
church and state.

Heaven held onto
despite the journey
climbing against
burning clouds.

Flesh by
the pound and I still have more
skin left you
can chafe
a heart to take
and crumple

under the weight of time.

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