patterns. the subtle craft of skin. to extract awareness from vanity. perpetual. the compulsion. the genius. of desperation to burden us with life. the wormhole at the base of our spine. carelessly naming the colors. these broken bulbs have cast. misunderstanding the darkness that grants us sight.
time is a blind surgeon. cutting the cancer out of corpses. futile heroics.
the wormhole exhales. she waits. for the future to find her. a soft bridge over a deep expanse. a disease worth having, even if only to know its beautiful symptoms. the possibility of a cure.
Even a funeral might be a victory. Even dying might be a reward.
The wormhole teases. Chances to die. Opportunities to live. The monkey rapes the chalkboard. The scientist fiddles with the maze. Everything is close. Burnt matchsticks. Everything is distant. Paper dresses still carry the stones.
the dead have a way of choosing their graves.
Monday
7/04/2011 01:06:00 AM
Sad Labels:
addiction
,
time travel
,
uncertainty
| Life Poems |