White Knuckling Fiend

The white knuckling fiend

With fists gone pale

In dogged determination.

He wouldn’t admit to himself

Everything was unraveling

Like wool sweaters you never wear

Only ever pulling on the threads.

He had tragedy in his veins

And his countenance began to crumble

As he wildly brandished

The polished pistol at noon.

Now weeks later

Many lies later

And three trials deep.

His threats cajole me one way

My hopes quite another,

Now here’s for some medieval justiceFor modern thought.

That’s what I say to myself

Preceding the first smirk in months,

I won’t take the fall

For wrinkled blueprints

Stuffed in my red pants

When I wasn’t even looking.

Under oath I have the voice

Of a nightingale,

And though he shouts his threats

He’s years away from me now.

And these blanket truths I’ve uttered

Comfort me just like one.

– Vagabond Prophet

– thanks @josy57 for prompting me with ’ under oath.’ More weirdness today.