For No Particular Reason But Feeling

Fingers confederated in fury,
In the starless, clouded shadow of rage,
No court, judge justice or peers of jury,
Just the two hours' traffic of my stage,
But in a quick flick of wind and the page,
A sliver of white swells fourth from the dark,
God's circular thumbnail, my savior sage,
Carries me from anger and strikes a spark
Of conscience and love, adjusting my mark,
As tightly clenched fingers spread to kiss palms,
Preparing myself quickly to embark
On reset of scruples, my anger calms
Praying to feel prayer in my hands, no qualms,
Despite the lies that make up John and Psalms.

The End

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