STRAY GOLDEN
There’s tragedy in the breakdown
but foundation in my fingers.
Moving up & down,
transposed conversation,
in the faith
that decidedly lingers.
The hues are clueing action
and the traction
tells of focal laymen,
painted gold in dandelion
amid exaggerated reason.
The liberation of prosperous blessing
stacks around ollied walls,
and the movement of
my wand is all
I hear to call.
I commiserate and flag
the equalized cues.
Something like lead to my pencil.
Something in my belly
when I hear the blues.
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