Count your fingers, and don’t be afraid

“Results may vary”

They say that you will grow, right along

With your phalanges.

I am heightened senses

I am ears pricked

And as close as any human thing

To bliss

Which I hate for it’s faux gentleness

And it’s idle, growing fingers.

They say that boredom is:

The most annihilistic vice 

Of a lonely god

But I am hind legs tensed

And I don’t believe in supposed sin

Of whatever lord is responsible for

12-sided dice

And rubber chickens

Even a god gets fidgety

Even a god must teeter

Over the precipice

Beyond salvation

So far closer

To fulfill their job description

Not one iota less