My bent road, remains rigidly
confused; directionally refused,
like poles of assurance, demagnetized
as my thoughts lean, lured towards the whispers
of ghosting fears; questioning memory's
recesses and haunts, holding holy verses
like a string on my finger, a divorced reminder
marking failed faith; in waiting
The Answer, doubt incubates unbelief...
"That is sin"
say those on the straight,
about this narrow shadowed path
trod by my soul, affecting understanding in passing
memorials to my life,
lost in trust.