a religion of renegades

Always fancied myself the
of wise,
audacity of those who’ve
died too young.

One pebble
in the grind, working hands that
build up stonework pride,
then tear it
down like castles
with no spine.

Single spoke in
a wheel I no
longer feel

Always thought I’d worded hurt correctly,
let tears appropriately
drift south,
tipping bottom’s
bottom to optimum angles.

Assumed I’m not a vandal
among waves but rather,
a small candle
to monsoons,

tenacious little flame could
never go out.

Never associated with a
firefly but were I to befriend one, it’d
come to rely more on

its mouth

than the gift of
finding your way.

Always thought myself
a brazen sage but I’m betrayed
whether I’m

apologizing for
my prophets,

an alternate religion I’ve watched age
into catastrophic


One thought on “a religion of renegades

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