Colour me in.
Colour me in with meaning, stencil me screaming.
The dirt I believe in not this half hearted church departed last faith born again resuscitated jargon.
Tell the House Martin who quivers and lifts.
They all come from the same place, the same land. They all bit the same grit. Chewed the same sand.
I make excuses that I’ve not been discovered yet. I forget how much the kin’s been met. Like a wet feta cheese, unpleasing and cheap.
Forgive me my sins.
I’m in deep.
Colour me in with meaning.
© G.P Williamson 2018