Two thousand men on death row in the state of Texas. I've never been here, still I'm worrying myself to death.
Webs of worry travel fast, scan over my memory bank back and forth like a copy machine.
I refuse to get out of my bed I'm covered with burnt dream ashes held in custody my cobwebbed anxiety sheets waiting for the on looking armed system of justice to take me away.
Their loud speakers keep screaming channeled commands through vibrating my eardrums; their messages keep cross-firing against my own desires.
There must be a warrant out for my arrest.
I will not listen period. I will shut out the sounds period. Insanity echoes with stressed sounds.
It's Sunday morning, prayer time, I swear I will block out the church bells ringing on Franklin Avenue, ringing at St. Paul's Baptist Church.
Religion confuses me like poetry or prose.
I curse I will hang where Christ used to dangle; wooden cross-post in a Roman Catholic hole, or was it protestant reformation?
I'm the thief, not the Savior.
I don't want to die in my worry, my words, stranger in this world alone. I want to resurrect the dream before the wounds came, and placed me in exile.
Long before the sounds of cell phones came ringing. There must be a warrant out for my arrest. Mixed in war, thunder, and sentence fragment.
