The Slippery Side

Religion is a snake in the fog.
Salvation with a sting.
When one is bit by the hair of the dog,
Comfort rides on tragedy's wing.
Philosophy is cantankerous pain.
Rain on the windows of the soul.
Grooves on the face of time remain,
Reminding one what once was whole.
Venom courses to an anger attack.
The straws fall where they may.
Could they ever support a camel's back?
Harnessed by a heart's sun ray?
Hope and pray to prop the hay,
A bale on the frail frame of Atlas.
To nurture the nature of life's decay
On the waxed wings of a catalyst.
The earth that holds the muddy molds,
Undone by the loss of a rib.
Nightmares that run from fun unfolds,
Chased to the date of the crib.
The fleeing stops. Breath exhales.
Troubled feelings turn to mist.
Relieved of the burdening bales,
The lips of freedom are kissed.
Worries wither to faulty vapors,
Foreign tongues of dialogue.
Forgotten. One of memories capers.
Hidden, like a snake in the fog.