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the road whispers. the distance shouts. the ugly wind presses. the wounded bridge couches its limp. afterward she warns. as the moment seethes and blisters. everything being angles. all the intersection calculated. in the tremble of the smallest insect. and the epiphany of all those empty places.

it chases. the scent of strays. the hunger of when. the sullen parcel of open doors. the heavy arithmetic of fading steps.

liars she loved. and the ones that failed to convince. all the same in the end.

delicate poisons written in flesh. the simple surrenders of yersterday. like broken strings. on balloons that floated away.

we suffer. the grim appraisals of bone and blood. students of the hour. theieves at auction. lessons rarely learned.

value is relative. dependent almost exclusively upon demand. subject to all the fickle whims of both reason and madness.

the distance submits. a magnificent surrender. and we are driven further by  the victory.

the darkness is parted. the wind is ignored. choices become us. beautiful diseases. such as the rarefied freedoms of the privileged and the loved.

muscles speculate on how much farther they can take us. but the edge has already spent our blood.

gravity betrays. it always does. that’s just its nature. cold windows on sober prisons wear the world in deep scabs. all dried blood and lingering bruises. the same song we’ve always sung. just with different lyrics.

we fumble with the mechanics. and boast about the politics. bone, skin, organs. a human chessboard. an ancient contest. and everyone a strategist.

the bridges approach us. the horizon inches closer. we pause, yet the world keeps moving toward us. in simple equations. in irrational constants. and all the fluid chaos that wants to make sense out of random events.

the starting point sunken deeper.  the angle of ascent steeper than ever.

the blood startled her. it was so abundant and so red. what’s my name. i know it. but i can’t remember.

the city growled. as angry as ever. rife with monsters. where am i. i know this place. but it’s different.

the wind hissed. as stubborn as ever. scratching and pulling at every loose piece of skin. impatient to reach the water. where am i going. i know the place, but it’s forgotten me again.

the sun cut. a hot blade running easily through everything. she recognized the pieces. but couldn’t begin to assemble them.

what’s my name. i know it’s out there somewhere in the distance.

the flesh resolves in autonomous purchases. the pattern bends. the fever whispers. colors and kingdoms measure the emptiness. in fading bridges and broken intersections.

the darkness is worn. frayed and discarded. like too much sweat. the vague appeal of ambitious marauders and lazy sovereigns.

we wait for the world to end. in various prisons. in eager cages. pacing with our starving skeletons. in defense of bones. in humility of flesh. sucking on the sour candy of thieves and madmen.

it’s always over. it never is. the zipper snags on redolent warriors. the innards overcome the skin. no terminal. just the roar of the journey as it effortlessly takes us. the timid of the map as is fails to convince us there is a destination.

a wealth of touch in a poverty of feeling.

missing elements breach the wind. perpendicular monsters in a horizontal madness. it’s always dark. it’s seldom measured in components we can comprehend.

hungry wolves devour the brittle armor of failing ghosts. the war tries us on like tattered clothes. the fight swallows its soldiers whole. the world ends not with a bang, but a whimper.

we narrow the edges. we clutch the seams. trusting nothing but the worst of it is real.  beating our fists on the bridges. kickng the wind. knowing the miles offer no forgiveness for the distance already wasted.

the chemistry  teases. the numbers consent. to purchases of skin we never knew could be spent.

the road opens. spreads out before us. we are devoured in the chaos of when. we can drown or we can learn to swim.

the empty void expands and contracts. a sour lung choking on toxic air. the wild invades with swift resolve. to return the gentle animal to its fierce origins. but the beast only has so many claws. even the monster weakens when pushed too far.

the world surrounds. in a tight fitting coffin. death whispers long before it screams.

the bleak confronts. with the grave certainty of no other earthly force. life struggles and hisses. defiant, yet ultimately powerless.

life insists as nothing else can. stubborn and feral even as the end encroaches.

survival is soft. wet matchsticks against the relentless storm. the spark  resists, but is overcome by the darkness.

Where it begins no one knows. Where it ends is anyone’s guess. The timeline is corrupt. The evidence has been tampered with. the tentative treaties between gods and men grow weak. The precarious bridges that link the future and the past grow more narrow with each passing year.

We live and die in paper and tears. Torn and borrowed. Sold and spent. Curious animals in impossible cages of our design.

Kings and paupers all theives in some way. Always wanting what’s out of reach. Always searching for some place that almost is.

take me there. under flagrant sun. against humming wind.

let me go. sour graves. ripe with distance.

the fox listens. the mouse roars. the hunt is paused.  we wait. seasons broken by the winter. bridges wasted on the connection.

the mountain yawns. devours the sun. we pretend to know each other. imagine we know ourselves. forgetting that truth is transient. it wanders. it abandons us. in favor or hungrier places.

the end swallows. chews us up. spits us out again. the world turns on the frail charms of liars and thieves. the lost louder still as the storms approaches. ripe with the perspiration of lovers and the dead.

spending the void pieces at a time. a marathon of flesh. broken zippers expose the bones. the storm is always sudden. the recovery is always slow. tomorrow whispers. pisses on the corners. spits on the edges.

there’s no when. just the memories of how. there’s no future. only the places we had planned to go.

the wind punches. gravity’s stubborn fists make their bruises in otherwise healthy bones. we crease. we fold. paper gods in a kingdom of matchstricks.


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