Take me back through it all
lead me past and under and across,
explain the drawings, the vapours,
the hauntings, the triggers,
back to when this all became default.

Along those rails we rested our elbows,
the cheap pine for believers,
making the red bruises, but not a mark
the Sunday mumbles, 
itches to stifle the why.

The pattern grafters never faded,
their suit and rail of normal
your tether for balance
in that underworld of empty heavens,
assumptions veneered by rote into rule.

You didn't know you wanted this freedom,
the severance, a fear, a flailing
but you hid it well in a template of perforations
the smallest spotlights
giving glimpses for guesses.

The absolutes of my own faith
were born on those rails,
the selfish evidences,
the primitives of sense,
now linear, a blinkered bigotry.

Under the snow
after a season or more
between soft root and a fortune gap
the chance awaits its sunday
upwards the urge, blind but true.