Bottom of the 9th
Ginger Rogers let Freddie hit the wall while she executed
a twist into anti-matter. That was the first warning.
And I left yesterday so I wouldn’t have to watch Duality’s
Cowboy-esque duel. A chickadee grabbed my attention
and said You should dip out too, before gravity’s
finished browbeating the hourglass.
Time to let the petals of Your rose goggles open, spread
Your feather pillow Krishna arms into a sideways figure eight.
How many years did You spend as Oedipus in need
of a rewind, hanging on to your last nerve for dear life
as Truth’s hurricane stun-gunned your gut ‘til it all turned to One long
déjà vu and – voila – a bulb flickered above your sleeping head?
Now, anything You see’s either a fragment of the shattered mirror
You project, or a mere extra in the movie you direct.
So no more hiding behind mommy’s skirt and its bias cut of Victim.
Can’t blame events that come to pass on anyone but You
if You’re the only animate cast member, Now, can you?
Don’t blame me for Your empty actors –
You’re the One that picked ‘em, the One who edits each scene
frame by frame, the One who rolls the credits at the end.
Grow a pair and step up to the plate that’s been waiting
on You since the spanking You received fresh out of
the womb – to be sure you weren’t dead on arrival.
Glow with incandescent prayer so others see
the glare of God within that blinds them into finding
the home base they created once they landed
safe on first. The referee blew the whistle on you,
and they’re designing your trading card as we speak.
So how you gonna play this one out?
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