Gods and Rabbit's Feet

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.