Incipient

There’s a full pot of coffee brewing somewhere  down in Hell
and the devil’s in his armchair, sipping zinfandel.
I am safe when the lock holds, until he breaks the door.
Beating like a bell; waves strike and shape the shore.
I should have stayed quiet. I’ve got to stay quiet,
and I cannot take much more.

Heavy wheels pass and the road suffers the weight,
the house shakes and groans with the summer’s old hate.
I am there, I am patched, potential sharper than a knife.
Forgiveness is a horse-pill when you’ve burnt your former life.
A sunbeam strikes a handgun in a flash before the flash
the road seems hateful when you’re yearning for the crash.

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