collisions. mountains stomp. like angry children. we play. sorry picnics. as though they were victories. the hours drone on. furtive with presumptions about. peeling scabs. dried blood. and that blade that would claim them.
she scraches. her diary into the shadows. invsible ink. and dwindling marrow. soft bones bend. where others might break.
charming the witch. as children are wont to do. fires under her dress. finding their oxygen. as the oven crackles with a new victim.
she dawdles on the blood. the one indication of permanence. the hours loudly argue their choices. but the dolls are deaf.
Wednesday
4/13/2011 12:56:00 AM
| Life Poems |