We fear the action of trusting.
Why would one form verdict without evidence
And flip a coin to determine fate of a life’s journey?
It is closing your eyes and spinning around in place,
Then pointing your finger and saying, “you.”
Isn’t any person we house faith in only random?
The very thought remains, we know not of a single intention-
We only find a man dealing cards at a green felted table
Holding lipstick stained glasses of half drunken scotch
And you are going all in on a hand of blackjack-
Sliding over every earned chip with much apprehension
To the house and his familiar smirk-
He most likely has a hand better than yours.
In trusting, we must let ourselves be violated,
Because only an uncomfortable intrusion has hands
To push us to the ledge that stands above the abyss
Of who we are.
What we fall into is another matter.