the past is seldom content to stay there. full of hungry ghosts and thirsty vampires.
time is an accountant. constantly reconciling debits and credits. no money. all flesh.
summer comes eventually. hot and brutal and determined to see us surrender.
it’s not the cold that we can’t withstand. it’s the heat.
we each have our own gods. or lack thereof. a series of skulking stages where our futile fantasies give us the empty reasons we need to go on.
we’re born. all of us. with scissors in hand. to cut from the paper the lies we need.
evolution doesn’t erase the beast. it just gives it voice.
our gods don’t make us good or bad. they merely tie the knots that keep us in chains.
we were solving for sober. we were spending the last of our grief. when the bridge collapsed and our islands began to sink.
her candle flickered. though the wind was calm. her voice grew quiet even as her words continued to shout.
the end is a curious labyrinth. of questions no one is willing to ask. the flesh is a heavy cloak. a burden old bones gladly discard given the chance.
we’re strong until we aren’t. love all torn envelopes and broken pencils. as we fumble with the fraying pages of a life almost lived.
and so much of us is lost with her.
the edge trembles. humming with the remains of our devotion.
we strain against our the anchors. as the tide rises.
she’s gone. free at last.
when the end finally came we wondered at what the end really was. children in capes of clay. anxious to fly again.
our absent gods were silent as always. the dark corners kept their shadows just the same. we could see where we were. or where we were going. but never both.
the years had dwarfed our desires. time had eclipsed our hunger. our hearts raw like the wind. as the storms drove deeper.
life smaller with every step. until only its debts remain.
flesh borrows and begs. the eternal pauper. regardless of its wealth.
life spends us. in nickels and dimes. in cuts and bruises.
and we let it.
because that’s what love is.
here we are again. with our useless nouns and our impotent adjectives. dogs chasing the second hand under our skin.
the hours diminish. the years wither and shrink. our bodies betray us with every attempt at happiness.
time cuts its shapes from our meat. we dine on each other for nourishment.
we keep counting, though life has stopped counting us. we scratch at the paper with empty pens. hoping the words can help us forget.
time louder still as we approach the rim. to look down into the chasm. ready at last, for it to devour us.
only grief leaves its stains on those crumbling bridges that bind us.
the colors surged. flesh the kindling. touch the catalyst. an explosion of want as our desire betrayed us.
the forest seething. our breadcrumbs gone. as we engage time as a predator.
we’re atoms. searching for a nucleus. we’re monkeys still dumbfounded by evolution.
there’s the thunder of intellect. and the whisper of lust. as we crawl out of these heavy skins. and wait for change to find us.
the pages still turn though we’ve written nothing on them. the end still inches closer. though we pretend not to fear it.
pain moves like a soldier. restless and determined to win a war that ended long ago. these bodies are tissue paper and vinegar. so we wait. for time to tell us that our suffering is over. but time is a liar. and suffering is blind, deaf and dumb.
we simmer softly. in the years that become us. the cracks in the mirror gradually expanding. until the entire picture has shattered.
the truth is like an oven. it sets what is raw. it chars what we ignore.
we ripen under the scorch of the sun. we rot in the scowl of winter.
we are many brilliant things, but strong is not one of them.
we need far too much.
we simmer in a our spent contrition. lost in the faded colors of a life barely lived. time roars. a violent admonition. the rope breaks and our nooses fail. the dead linger. chalk and ash in the crevices of grief. as we watch the bulb slowly dim.
struggling with the torn maps and the missing places. victims of our own narcissism . thieves stealing what’s been stolen from us.
the stilted edge swallowing our wilted choices. the answers growing heavier as the miles accumulate.
the needle boasts its thread, but still our seams come undone. gravity peddles its epiphanies. still our ladders are broken.
we swim in this deepening ocean. hungry for a distant end.
we surrender. to these empty skins. our truth like lead. drowning us.
the lies tell us when the truth is insufficient. our cages become us. until we forget that we’re prisoners. we chase the edge. thieves high on the hunt. we crouch in the deepening distance. pretending to chase the monsters that are hunting us.
we rage against time. delusion our only weapon.
the dolls slip out of their dresses. plastic skin and heavy scars confront us. the pendulum still swings. in either direction.
the clock still ticks. taking away the luxury of choices.
her lips move, though no words are said. her fist clenches. though she possesses nothing.
the silence stuck her. like an empty needle promising drugs. life spun in steep staircases and hollow attics. she chased the end. a dog biting at its tail. the world thick with impositions as she waited to die.
the shapes came into focus. though the words were still absent.
she idled in the vacancy between life and living. impotent.
a bullet without a gun.
tomorrows came and went. too many to count. an eternity of mercies wasted on suffering.
humanity’s arrogance weighs on her bones.
still, even as they break, it shows no mercy.
we were helpless. masters of our oblivion. all our gestures empty. the slur of hungry skin. all our clothes stained. suffocating under the fantasy of change.
we fought the wind. knowing it would always win. we took the slope. knowing that we had no brakes. the impact our only incentive. as the pain tempted a life we’d yet to live.
the music peaked. and we fell under its weight. crushed by the urgency of our grief.
we trembled against the thunder of circumstance. paper left out in the rain.
dissolved. all the words washed away.