Thursday 10/20/2011 12:28:00 AM

there is so much rope. weights and measures toiling in the dormant of choices. the thick of lies. and the thin of truth. empty pens in the fists of corpses. withered paper darkened by their open graves.

If I could still stay awake to listen to the voices. And pretend that they come from the outside. The beautiful monsters that made love possible. The ugly heroes that took it all away.

the waiting. spoiled by caution. the unblinking eyelashes of dolls to wish upon. the fetid witchcraft of pleasure. that chased away the last of that dream.

When. As soon as this distant sheath of skin confesses to murder. And that dull blade inside it digs its way back into my flesh.

Living is violence. Life is a corruption of moments. One by one they take everything. A brutal and unrelenting rape. Constantly tearing. Digging at the small holes. Until the void becomes comfort.

I thought the hurt was world enough. Some wasting habit ample to annihilate. Papier mache skeletons. Drying slowly against the thin balloon of touch. Harder still against the arrogance of the hollow.

Confident in the poetry of the paradox. Of all that could not be because it already was.

Everything is nothing. Nothing was everything.

In it I heard. The whisper of a sheep amongst the roar of the wolves.

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