Church service funeral death march, insipid virtue and value, angry at the big man in the sky, pointing his finger of incomprehensible size. Adjudicating momentary stoppages in judgement time as the one moral line in the universe. That part of geometry I understood when it was taught to me. Lines and shakes, shapes. Rays. Elementary concepts. But when it came to calculation and application, I was lost, grasping at mathematical ghosts having to BS my way out of another one.

Head stopped, stooped in prayer, knees, all bones, aching on the ground. Regret is its own purgatory. Tears glisten from cheeks, streaming down like rivers who, that have seen miracles and Nature’s cruel, swift sword. Taking away life and cradling it back down into decomposition. Solemn mass, the soul is reflecting refracted light from within so that now I have become also, almost like a disco ball of emotion spilling, spinning slowly outward, projecting these things, this sadness onto anyone who comes close. And it is sadness. And I feel dampered down. White clapboard church.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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