Something stunning occurs when the rhythm
snaps and pops, straightening out all the kinks
in your neck, all the links that you'd give him,
all the joy and pain, as your swelling shrinks:
They're looking for me, but I've gone nowhere
but within myself to rediscover
truth and faith as I now begin to stare
down the barrel of my life's revolver:
To spin away or return? Why not both?
He is you and you are me, endlessly.
Essentially. Grace is my form of truth,
and I am grateful for your courtesy:
But my spine aches; I must lift my own head;
even if it kills, time does raise the dead.