It isn't the keys or the bottlecaps
adorned with some image of a deity, that makes me stumble.
Just this month.
I've told you all there is to tell
back in place, the lovers helm,
a sickly visage of diner's guilt.
Just this once.
It isn't carrying things, or the weight I drag about
it's a wonder wheel of intent and purpose doubt.
you've told all there is to hide
back a step, the liar's guise,
an enfeebled glance that misguides
— The End —