I have been the calculated jockey

prancing among the racing horses in this world.

I have been the silence in the echo chamber.

I have been the chipped record on the turntable,

the son near an angel.

But it is time, it is time.

Shame is knocking at my door,

wearing its constricting reins of leather.

Life, my decadence, admit it.

the static sings peacefully,

on the television.

but i am not here.

i am enmeshed in the lamb’s wool,

peering over worn buttons,

only knowing how keep myself warm.