ten voices. one eye. the harmony of madness dances barefoot on the metling ice. sapplings and thieves paint the forest red. no days. only lingering nights. with more words than voice.

the history of skin is written in sweat and scars. the story of everything we were. are. might become. these plastic time machines break and bend. as we struggle to find what was always there.

life spills in. a drizzling rain seeping through the cracks. too shallow to drown us. too deep to allow for an escape.

dirty corners. steal their faces from sleeping gods. she chases the words. a feeble hunter threatening with broken arrows. the sickness that once made her strong now all knots and stones. Heavy ropes find the room where all those empty boxes still wait. for gravity to remember. how far.

grey squares solve her in interrupted algebra. stolen numbers and fugitive colors. stare silently. no words come to rescue. nor heroes dare to save. the bird that cannot fly.

heavy wings beat the darkness. but gravity remains unconvinced.

tomorrow has its stories. frantic fables and lazy lessons. little forests. big children. the epiphany of perspective often stalls at threshold of gods and choices. knotted rubber bans. encompass her words. devilsih time machines. with more irony than wit.

the moment chokes on itself. an awkward suicide of symptons. the sickness turns on itself. another hungry paradise bares its fangs. listens for the blood.

she simmers and listens. an empty tea kettle left on the heat. boiling over with nothing.

the hours like brutal soldiers.

she trembles and quakes. a dead leaf codemned to the fists of the wind.

crumbling.

the child in her heavy shoes. struggles to walk quietly. the burnt math of trembling fingers. as they touch. but fail to feel.

incredulous demon trying on abandoned halos.

laugh because the end was always there. frayed shoelaces and awkward left turns. on a journey without places. filled with synonyms for how to get there. years after there's nowhere left to go.

empty boxes. torn wrapppers. the mortgage of skin and other such devices. a commodity of indulgence. to barter or to leverage. the rich algebra of skin manipulates her. the stern science of humanity. like paper. so little surface. so many sharp edges.

no heroes. just curious villains pissing on capes.

the grey bird sang in soft tones. bent wings flew her closer. but she never reached it. that imaginary place. others called home.

she screamed that it was a parade. she wept that the monsters didn't care. alone in her hysteria. for all the world to disdain. heavy hammers and broken bulbs. flaunting the story of her madness. between dim walls smudged with hope. and other such alluring frailties.

she draws in skin. with her hungry paper. singing songs that no one else can hear. whispering stories that only listen. never tell.

the world ended years ago. she's just waiting for her blood to notice. the infection. eager addicts with far too many exits.

playing songs. soft lullabies pretend her voice. words she's only ever imaigined saying. and all the lies she's told only to herself. the rumble. the earthquake. torn shoelaces. fumbling hte path. that finds us this close to the edge.

the words. the obvious conditions. biting down on the stick. waiting. for the words to remember. us.

the stale kindness of erupting skin. the earnest intent. of broken zippers and empty buckets. the selfish lies that are told by the flesh. they name us. in numbers and fractioms. they push away the clouds, but eventually give in

alone has it's way with her. ean easy rape. a quiet hopeleessness.

that still pretends to know what is missing.

those yellow doors haunt her again. slivers of sickness running parallel to the lock. the hours form their paradox. with threads of skin perpendicular and needles fouled in want. those empty rooms are too patient with their contents. she grows old waiting for them to reveal what is lost.

these blue roads boast of journeys to be taken. or to be taken by. wagging tongues in the mouths of fate. puke their treasure maps.

alone has always suited her. moreso with age. her voice a monster. manic with rage. her heart a bucket. riddled with holes.

she chases the colors. yellow doors. blue roads. purple thresholds. paths to take. or to be taken by. destinations more alive than she's ever been.

places. to be. someone else.

colorful places.

needles and thread. to mend the holes.

smooth stones boast her name. in both execution and resolve. the unfortuante future of the circumstance withers. confesses. to knowing it was always lost. just pretending to believe. in something other than whsipers in the storm.

the dance resolves to the mania. gentle dimples in the swaying wall. the distance long. the journey short. poison apples are what feed us all.

stiff shadows write her vows. to empty gods and tempting flames. the world ends quietly. not loud like we had imagined. spinning rooms. boast windows. overlook the glass.

whispers steal the stories from her lips. angles draw tomorrow under her skin. tracing the cold outlines heroes with dry markers and broken pencils.

a series of colorless heavens welcoming the condemned.