the angle relents. the distance swallows. a funeral of skin urges us to live.
turpentine lips steal the colors from unraveling threads. we marvel at gravity’s persistence. spoiling in yoke of our paradox. that what makes us weak also makes us strong.
touch like tinder. easily ignites. we embrace the flames. anything to escape the cold.
flesh unfurls. a treacherous road. the body reveals its topography. a merciless terrain of highs and lows.
a perfect odyssey of pleasure and pain.
we forgot the sun. our eyes closed. our bodies suspect. souveniers of lingering storms.
we spent the dark. the only wealth we had. but it bought us only more of its nothing.
the wind’s generous folds flirted with gravity. negotiating the terms of impact. how hard. how many pieces.
the moments plastic. skin like cement. time’s fragile needle stuck between them.
the wind pushes. pulls. laughs. time belongs to all of us. it’s ours to break. yet, it remains, the feral beast we are unable to tame.
forget the sun. it’s winter now. there’s no use for warmth. remember the clouds. because they remember us. as the cold slips in and our crutches rot.
the broken stairs. the missing steps. coughing. aching. under our skin. taut rubber bands. snapping.
it’s not weakness that cripples. it’s arrogrance. as the hills work their wicked gravity.
the path pretends to find us. assuming that we were lost. the storm pauses. waiting for the lightning.
but usually, it jsust stays dark.
it was far. until it wasn’t. a commulative endurance. stickpins in the shallow folds of our want. pages torn from the depths of our loss.
wearing the math like soldiers in a storm. searching for the sum. defending the deficit. the rain doubts. but the wind is sure.
the distance has its skirmishes. still the weather determines the length of our war. the scrape of skin. the stab of gravity. as the edge approaches. a puzzle without pieces. a pictire in the dark.
it’s never too close. nor too far. the bridges take us there. our choices takes us home.
the cold unfurls. a gentle beast. we press the wind. with empty pens and broken keys. liars full of truth. sinking. in the quicksand that is each moment. ready to suffocate. commanding the precipice. content to fall.
forgetting the little snares. ignoring the minor predators. solving the road in pebbles and twigs. the way we first found it. how it last discovered us.
the raindrops weighted. the sun always borrowed. as we chase our dwindling horizons.
it’s not the weather. nor time. needles threading the void. slopes altering the force required to push.
it’s our choices. how they’ve spent us.
time procrastinated. lingering on the folds in her gown. a kingdom of uncircumcised doubt. her voice all parenthesis. every thought an aside. nothing real. except the rabid punctuation between flesh and how. her body a thesaurus of when.
wooden bridges over steep highways. the uneasy embrace of nostalgia. as the traffic cuts below. narrow arteries. too much blood.
it was unfortunate. but not unexpected. the race was over. nobody had won.
she crawls out of her colors. tucks herself inside the grey.
she whispers in gravity’s ear. as she approaches the edge.
she kisses time on the cheek. and waits. for the pendulum to choke.
the edge overlooked her. dominant calculations. submissive results. she grabbed her hansel and headed for the oven. candy in her eyes and panic on her heels.
too many dead witches. not enough live ones. too many dark forests for children to get lost in.
the rain is obvious she assumed. a tactical position between the sun and the moon. a tattered signpost on the long road to not knowing where we’re going. the oblique poetry of lost sifting through the quiet. as we hold our breath. and wait. for the waiting to expire.
the little wolves. and the big ones. heavy with the hunt. the straw houses and the brick ones. empty just the same. all the little piglets long since eaten.
the horizon teases feast. but hunger is all the road provides.