Wicked Pisser

Still and all,
Peter Paul,
Who would gaul
To wander backwards,
​
Risk a fall.
Trusting nature,
Open eyes,
Fear no danger.

Look how strangers'
Steps have carried
Moments, buried
In the soil.

Seeker’s oil
Lies ahead.
So don’t play dead.
Focus toward

The arc’s horizon,
With hope held hands
And no demands
But lucky charms.

Open brave your arms.
The morning target,
For those alike
To gather,

Soap and lather.
Clean the layers.
Bitterness does no favors,
Only locks the door.

Like a lion, Roar!
And sound the rabble.
Even thoughtless babble
Will shake the grit.

Relieve yourself of it.


4/23/22