Naked Prophets

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.

The Internal Mosaic

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.

False Convictions

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 Center of the World

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.

Internal Cages

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.

Screams That Can’t Be Heard

time festered in the crevices of our skin. we touched the bottom. to see how deep it was. stunned to discover how eager it was to drown us.

we counted the pebbles as the tide negotiated our desperation.

the day was loud. the distance deaf. as we chased a horizon that was always ahead of us.

there’s no memory that burrows as deeply. there’s no clock that chimes as sharply as loss.

we fester in the evolution of touch. naked dolls. our stained clothes discarded.

we steal the lipstick from time’s vanity case. determined to be beautiful to someone no matter the cost.

as we struggle for truth we learn that everything is pencil marks. the ink evaporates.

we collapse under the weight of expectation. the broken needles still dancing in our veins.

the world shouts. hope is only a whisper.


we spent our grief in nickels and dimes. spare change.

our debt exceeded us. we marveled at the thickening scabs of broken flesh.

the wounds had taken us this far. the fractured bones had spent their marrow on the infectious whims of touch.

and dwindling choices.

we opened our umbrellas as the storm commenced.

cloaked in our caution.

it wasn’t long before the truth was drowning us.

Pulling Threads

small as we are we shrink smaller still. sparrows in the shadows of eagles. pebbles in the depths of the ocean.

the straining threads begin to come apart. the waning lessons mostly forgotten. on the brink of tomorrow we are all children. vulnerable and uncertain. as the future collapses in on itself.

time whispers. a devious poet with endless pages to fill.

we snarl. dogs on short leashes. unaware of how we came to be owned.

we listen from inside our prisons as the future boasts freedoms we’ve never known.

the end closer than it’s ever been.

Conditional Statements

the quiet walls listen while our words disappear. the empty rooms watch as our memories vanish.

there’s the thunder of how. there’s the murmur of why. the insatiable arithmetic of skin. we scratch our numbers into each other. and wait for the gamble to turn a profit.

time chews softly on tender bones. as we continue to limp toward impossible utopias.

tomorrow’s wolves lick the wind and taste our weakness. we’re marked for the hunt.

the heavy door closes softly. there’s nowhere left to go. we linger in our choices. slouching against hope’s bloody grin.