Turnpike Grits

History, the ultimate drive-by
Words that we let fly
Meaning, demeaning the things that we decry
The dead have no alibi
We ask, but we never can know why

The years turn to stories
We tell of our glories
In sort of a smoky blue haze, we’re euphorious
How we’re victorious
Over the forces of all that’s notorious

How we’re deserving
Our focus unswerving
And never say, ‘hey, maybe this is self-serving’
For others observing
May see us with much clearer vision unnerving

But still, the road sits
Where we get turnpike grits
Above all the sweet love that our raiment admits
And the world shakes with fits
As we notice in drabbles and bits

And time works it mystery
Ere the consistory
All of our reasons become so much sophistry
Excuses blistery
We become history

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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