smudge

 The stone in the shoe is a fork in the road. The flipped coin and the idle gamble. The call is the cause, the shed stone the next wave, the dominos there to fall. The world won’t give it a rest. Suspicions are that the fix is in.

So you do what you can to gaffe the deck. Attach what gods and ghosts you can to the project, sign your name on the line. Praise the lord and pass the ammo. Make a mantra out of here’s looking at yous and atta boys, hitch a ride on the way it’s gonna until you clear the field. Don’t kid yourself, kid— it’s still a long walk in the dark alone. You may as well pocket the tithe, you’re going to need every last cent.

So say your prayers and rest your cases. Burn the sage and make your peace. Live by wits and wisdom, in turn both trick and treat. Watch your step and count your stars. The fix is in how you learn to fit. Once all the faiths have made their declarations, and all the words runout. The world still turns,  out along the sprawl of the reeling Milky Way. Each step becomes another. The end will come around again.