A hot-air soap box
Self-appointed arbiter of reality hovering above it
Awakened
Targets sighted in at a distance
Scoff. Scoff.
Dialed in that detective’s sneer
Locked
Gospel spewing with conviction
Fingers tipping
“LIES!”
– Riveting —
Mediocre drivel dribbling drool swishing the lower bowl’s drooping swoop into the terminal tip
White crispy crust stained corners of the lips powdering prints like a crime scene