Cursed with a face of ingenuous exactitude
I’m afraid I am
When I would rather have sun stroked eyes.
.
The underdog role would be more fierce,
I think,
An ability to see for miles down streets
So wanting for my rapid movements.
.
Time and again,
My inner oracle calls for a self-examination,
And in my face I see discovery,
A human truth,
When I would rather see steely, ungoverned straightness,
A hidden truth.
.
People look to me,
Not at me,
And in the flourished, nursing countenance I bequeath,
.
They glean the fresh fancies of this next moment’s procession,
And the dawn,
The temporary, disposable vagary
Of each trip to Heaven.