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.
Sad Poems: Crime of Satan Poetry 