In the Courtroom, We Collectively Stared at Our Boots

From my boots, to their laces, upward through my record collection and my health, all of these strange and wonderful things- sewed their plot against me.

In all the graces of the world, and the graces in you. All I had taken for granted. Until I was washed up, and befitting the spot I’d wrought myself on the path I’d taken.

You’d protested one final time, and I replied with reason.

And though I’ll never know, if doing what I’ve done was the only thing that could set me on the path of the righteous, wielding swiss made ballpoint pens and pulling at my own hair, I have to believe it so.

I have to. Because otherwise I had looked back into the pit, and everything was taken.

And worse still, I feel I am deserving. There isn’t any rotten driftwood shield of hubris held together by nails and spit. “Adventure” they called it. Homelessness was another.

In the dark night of my kitchen, the emerald isle was black. Dishes uncleaned, papers scattered, trying to make sense of my own sins.

In the light I had only now begun to blink into, I couldn’t fathom- how had I let it go like this for so long.

and in every seat of the courtroom was me- though the one in shackles was the best dressed of all.

Lord, could I take it all back, give me one last chance to make things right.

I cannot spend these years lost,

Knowing how close I’d really come.


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