I am guilty of being trite,
As am I at fault for sporting shotty rhetoric
Or spending my breath on idol flattery
Or empty praise.
But there's a frequency I've found
Spinning on my local airwaves
That has turned my trust from truth and reason
And shot me out to search
For the rare abstraction of form
Found in the very tactile moment, after conversation,
When one realizes silence has fallen.
My father was always perfectly empirical.
He never believed in ghosts or rabbit's feet,
But I have bought the superstition
That this won't end well.
I have invested my future in the fall of bones
Whose earth bound course will be the cause
Of countless arcane musings.
Here, caught between binary code and bibles,
In the generation that got used to school shootings,
I've preoccupied my concious pulse
With the games of gods and men,
To find the secret words
That tell the facts about the after of everything.
