crevice

the smell of burned pots and bad outcomes and I'm all thumbs reviewing the recent past and the stranglehold that's fading fast because I've heard we're built to last at least for a little while longer and whether I'm right or wrong or the judgment is deferred or whether I'm weak or strong and depending on prayer we'll all be like silent saints in the homecoming crowd set to evaluate the former and emancipate the latter and it doesn't matter because debris is fighting the urge to fall from the sky and the smooth highway turns into a crevice as I dead reckon my arrival time