People are screaming behind my eyes
Because I cannot tell their tales.
Stuck, like a smart car in a squall,
At the lip of a broken bridge
Underneath which the water chatters,
Self-aware, rushing towards the sun that
Discreetly dips into the ocean for a swim.
Stuck, like a man of the cloth
Who just realized HE is the one
In which sinners confide from behind
The mesh of a confessional.

My wrath needs a vehicle,
My head is a cage.
My hand is a miracle,
My thumb an outcast
As four fingers giggle together
In easy companionship:
Index finger strong and reliable,
Middle finger bawdy and crude,
The ring finger towering over the pinky
With the crushing weight of commitment.
The oil on my fingertips
Like wet gunpowder; the fuse has been lit
But there is no spark.
Stuck, like a beetle on its back,
Seeing the sky for the first time.