Waiting List

The wrong kind of people admire me. When exceptionalism goes down the wrong pipe, a concerning bout of coughing ensues. This is how their speech strikes my ear. I expect them to excuse themselves and fetch water for relief. Instead they extend this discourteous fit of gagging and wheezing by enumerating unworthy company from which they wish to separate. They count it a lofty practice to cut down God's diversity. Beware of talent. It is a charming picklock. Before you know it, a man who can send you to heaven with eleven chords of violin will explain why stifling wages of day laborers are just. No one will charge him with breaking and entering. Yet his feet abide in places past his sphere of understanding. Add to my consternation how the wrong eyes read my rebuke. The degenerate gambler whose habit causes a prize horse to run until it is lame will receive not so much as an agitated puff. However, it's groomer who does care for the stead will be the first to catch her hind legs. Therefore do not stand too close even in our mutual affection. I do not turn down tenderness. The wisdom of age will teach you how to vault it, and when to spin the combination wheel. My plea is that the righteous would abandon sophistication. The truth can always be made simple. One lie is choreography. Do not surrender your mind to thoughts that create an obstacle course of intuition. The truth and instinct do part occasionally, but are never out of sight from each other. If you can not touch your hunch in three steps, you are under a spell. Do not bargain away your humanity for a season of advantage. The stars are not hung in the sky for the sake of a fleeting upper hand. Neither do angels follow the slimy trail of leverage. Fortune is only entranced by the lasting sparkle of the imago dei.