Wednesday 9/15/2010 01:25:00 AM

waits the volcano. suffers the storm. under the density of her breath. all broken clocks and old windows. that succumb to the wind. and don't know. when we are. if we've been here before. or if we'll ever be back again.

the mark of the devil is patience. the mark of god is apathy. she climbs the stool. to reach the empty cupboard. where the meaning once resided. Before the pills were all yellow. Prior to the end of the world. She'd scrape her chalk on the pavement. And find art in the missing footsteps.

Punctured drums still being beaten. Soft sticks and endless rhythms. Raise the doll nearer to god. Torn dresses. And melted faces. Leave them doubting the distance. Between. angels and demons.

the parched volcano drinks of the destruction. big gulps swallow hard. chewing on the rocks. little girls climb to reach this precipice.

a small time machine carved into her chest. Always counting backward. Never finding where it begins.

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