Liquid, 

the back of your throat. 

It drains,

you wake up.

Few hands to hold, 

you brought us here, let me drip,

drain, here, 

in your world again.

Your veins squealing the corners,

you’re just in time,

only a year late.

The most respected 

unconscious servant,

willfully being pulled deeper,

lunging,

coursing through,

beading the cracks of your lips.

You’re dancing 

on unpaved roads with the devil, 

Jesus, 

the sinner and saint.