A wannabe bishop’s plea
for uttered grace
and spoken-for-time.
Why’d you go and break it
again?
Grind kosher salt into my cuts,
so at least I don’t offend those above
when you burn me through.
Real friends
or fiends
on my shoulders
and mind
The view from so high
has given me clarity.
I left my heart in your glove-box.
Tell me if you hear it weaken any more