Beliefs are dirty things
kept in closets like old suits,
dragging them from the dark
when a line needs to be drawn
to distinguish ourselves from
the hoards of souls roaming
like missiles homing with
broken guidance,
hoping they scatter like birds
from a stone thrown
at still water, swinging
like strung-up puppets
of conscience, panning
for gold in a river
of discontent,
sifting through the silt
and wondering why our
hands never come clean.
Published in Collected Poems, 2016
©2016, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books