Her voice in stones. Smooth and opaque. Like cannibals reciting poetry. The treaty. Her confession mars the victory. The war chokes awake. In puzzled nightmares thick with semen.
The numbers tell their stories. Mad tortoises in lingering races. The tide clutches the sand. More salesman than artist. Leveraging the damage against a lottery of skin.
Pockets in the Earth. A funeral of kings. A panic of princes.
Colors left and hours forged. The simple weapon of choice. The obvious execution of thought. Simple enough to envy. Complex enough to hate.
Distance decides. Everything is small.