I don’t go to church but everyday I keep a Angel in my pocket

There is a feeling the guides me, looks upon me, and protects me

A anchor sewn into my clothing, I hold it, I look upon it, and protect it

A mutual obligation that objectifies all inquiry interest

I see it, it sees me

What is the the “it”? A question that spirals and spins

A nuisance, a nag, that makes me feel like a rag

Instead of this I see a enticing idea

Why shall I question anything good?