the torn hem wears her grin. in threads of how. the future overtakes us. her skin like heavy robes. rigid with needles and useless medicines. choice. a series of random pinnochios desperate to be real. 

dreaming up her wars in bouts of sun.

wood, straw and bricks. naming their gravity. in broken clolors spoiled by sweat. the temporary monsters of flesh. have their betrayals calculated.

empty guns blame the bullets. simple strangers gather their wolves.

knowing the edge. the uncretain science of patience. pinholes in the clouds. a fever of trust. still rich enogh to  purcahse the game outright.

the rain falls. smooth on the glass. the storm waits. knots to be undone. places to take us where w've always been.

The barter of when. The collaspe of how. Proximity like a razor. Processes the blood. Flaunts the infection.

swollen storms find her veins. pale breadcrumbs whsiper the path. of seldom soldiers and humble villains. the drizzle echoes. a curious song against the dead concrete. the snow falls. the icicles drip. like hungry dogs. bartering for their fangs.

naming the ghosts. as seems obvious to do. the hierarchy of skin not withstanding. soft monsters within erupt. crooked ladders chasing empty attics.

imaging the world in rotten fruit skins and stale bread. the hunger louder still.

life turns softly. on the needle's point. an epiphany of monsters more crayon than pencil.

the sweet misery of when. a fickle gravity pulling fast. in useless stabs of broken glass. time unfolds. like splinters deeply embedded. a circus of strangers. tarnished by circumstance.

the simple cancer of want. contaminating every atom. the awful cure that is forgetting. yawning wide. to swallow every chance.

the darkness solves for us. the rain manipulates the weather. the end debates her. in knotted threads and hurried whispers.

no one's there. everyone is.

the forest breathes. a choking breath full of empty gods and trembling isolation. a feverish ladder of  of skin. offers her passage. a blunt fairy tale pursues.

the broken path. triangles stabbing the squares.

the crash of numbers. the stab of distance. divided by the tepid knives of arrogant circumstance. locks on the fence. wishes discarded with the key. the burden of hope swelling.

the longer strands. the hunters bathing in their bullets. the folds in the glass becoming more apparent. as i wrestle with the opportunity to see. small demons flaunting their big fangs. as if evil were real.

Tilting mountains. Sagging clouds. The surreptitious weather of living.

The deeper footprints. The thinner path. The fierce pandemonium of being. Wastes each shadow  searching for a reason.

seldom monsters slip into their claws. the easy costumes of hunger and isolation. the slope. glistens with gravity. the edge whispers of elaborate descents. the day breaks open. crwaling toward the sun. earnest matchsticks thirsty for a spark.

the glass breaks against the blades of her breath. the world churns in a swaying pendulum. a choke of colors. a stab of numbers. the distance swallows. the silence vomits. time falls aways. broken rubber bands. that once held together this mania of decisions. 

the corners flaunt their ghosts. in abstract treasure maps. the moments shuffle their diseases. empty  boxes generous with their hollow contents. the fever wears her. a long gown of skin and disappointment. the darkness still dances. though the music has stopped.

walls shuffle their shadows. the brave insomnia of poets and children. scours the night for a cure. not understanding the sickness is all that we are.

the obvious arithmetic. wolves drowning in sheep. the paradox of love. a simple poison. easy to swallow. impossible to digest.

bend the wind. angles stark with choice. beat the air. with trembling whispers. time travels us. in jokers and discards. the stubborn wagers of flesh. keeping count. the weight of one petal heavier somehow than the entire flower. the strangle of the path. in ribbons easily undeone.

the disease stutters. more helpless than the victim. quiet alarms.gift wrapped in pillows of blood and piss.

simple edges convince the scars. absent blood and stiff with husteria. her hollow dress teases the wind. haunted by the ghost of a pesron she once was.

the machine churns. noisy and ignorant. measuring the void in dirty panties. life is paper. blood our only ink. as we beg for the stories to remember us.

the hungry quake. the nervous surrender. broken faces on the quivering distance. we travel so far to find the beginning. only to be taken by the end.

bent shadows scrape the ceiling. searching for a limit. the heat builds. in empty ovens. travellers boast their paths in sour candies. if the future knew her. surely it would admit. the end is thick and grey. musty with old knots and soiled bandages.

the entrance swells with virulent predators. the rim grips her. in a spectacle of weakness. gravity shouts. in its husky whisper. like running water. the beautiful monsters of men. drowning in the gorgeous tucks and folds of simple choices.

the edges of the paper sharp. the little dolls dancing. on whims of ink and eager strangers. her busy buckets hungry for more. distant claws find the crease. the color bleeds in calm confessions. the scabs form slower than expected.

candy houses with all the lights out. revel darkly in the cost of witches.

solvent storms wager the moments. in thunder. the wager overcomes her. constructing the soul. in scraps and tremors. of the last distaster. empty houses grab the storm. easy bridges. of stones and sticks. chase the ghosts that make their home in the edges.

the broken ladders. the spent doors. a chaos of fangs in the shadows of her picinic. wearing her forest in stolen angles. and discarded dressess.

the softer words still trying to decide. as the hard edges creep inward.

seldom leopards. reticent wolves. all the howls a predator can boast. like broken nails. struggling to hold together so much rotting wood.

the bulb goes out. the light surrenders. it's in our nature to deny it. but the shadows know us better.

paper faces crease and shiver. she traces the edge. a desperate tumult of colors suffocating in darkness. origami skin transforms. the deceptively simple art of lovers. muted storms rattle the glass. stretching gravity taut.

simple derivatives. colors confess. burning houses still ripe with poets. aching attics pale with surrender. she has her words. seldom more. falling speculates. of mice and men. the dull stab of ample bridges. too easily undone.

building the center. layering scabs like paper mache. sculpting the monsters. with poison and indifference. a bald ocean offering to drown us. an empty vessel threatening to float.

using the distance. in hungry stabs. and shallow cuts. inertia extracting just enough blood. to feed the ghosts.

the steady corruption of skin. bald numbers growl and scratch. the warped door wheezes on its hinges. the worn lock chokes on its cylinders. a pantomine of choices. more surrender than freedom. we each learn to swim under the weight of time. content to drown rather than resist.

the silence chases. limping as it does. crippled stories draw her. in jagged sketches. and threaded whispers. the world ends every night. and begins again at sunrise. what happens inbetween is quiet and confident. as it pisses on her bed.

the monster swells. stiffening her flesh. the world deflates. a lost balloon. on a journey into the sun.

the words defeat her. every time. pointed bullets.

she scolds time. for overlooking the obvious. she thanks gravity for being as weak as it is.

her puzzle. her tempest of words. disregards the math. hungry for the cold. and  the comfort found in its desolate aftermath.

the sprawling sand. the dented Earth. pictures stolen. and absent soldiers. still fight a war that ended long ago.

told by their stories. rivets and slashes. and empty elevators that tend to stop between floors. her reasons deflect and surrender. in a rage of fluorescence. the dull grind of hollow light. vomitting the middle. Choking on the end.

colorful suicides. add their taut punctuation to otherwise simple tales of discovering isolation. a series of twig houses. each one faithfully crumbling on top of its pig.

choice is no more linear than memory is. a jagged seam in the truth. a bent needle heavy with thread. life wears us. in creases and folds. toothless predators menacing ghosts.

the hour surprises her with an obsenity of lovers. pennies for the fountain. borrowed poisons. cripple, but rarely kill.

crippled dogs. bent fangs arguing with the darkness. stony barks punctuate the abyss. between this night and tomorrow. the withered world trundles in and out. in a hiss of choices. she watches herself. from a distant perch. resenting thr stranger that owns her face.

cold buttons pressed deep on hot machines. the limp of chaos catching up. as we stumble toward the margins. the dull pastels of victims. softly reiterating fading bridges. muted echoes spilling over with color. hungry portraits with their teeth in the steel.

quiet monsters tell their stories in folds of skin. and little wrinkles in time. colorless rainbows chase the sun.  pretending to know. the fractions.  that devour the distance.

there is infinite math in every breath. an eternity of subtracting, multiplying and division. the bashful needle of addition not dismissed. the pages crease. and the ink stains. withering biographies overtake earnest flesh.

time's engine sputters. overcome by the distance.

chasing her resolve in doses of the disease. there is comfort in the illness. security in the bleeding. nesting dolls breathe their quiet songs. skin like autumn. cool and abrupt. impatient. like flickering signs lost in the tremors of a fading journey. corpses are free to dance. ghosts colorful and opaque. as the end of the world approaches. in soiled aprons and flaking scabs.

she's only older. grayer and more distant. kite string eyes struggling with the wind. and all the weaker forces strugging to defy gravity's purchase on this skeleton. we're just bones. heavy with skin. worn daggers stabbing at the void. imagining monsters in every corners of heaven.

defeat comes in the same way victory does. limping and unresolved. as this world insists. no beginning. no finish. just the pieces. more jagged than the years would suggest. small fires barely alive in the dark. started, yet unfinished. as is the nature of touch.

these strangers. a stubborn division. more arithemtic than creature. the algebra of trying. wanting. what belongs only to the muddled scrape of chance. a fleeting surrdner. an obstinate war. all the battles forgotten. only the dead left for us to barter.

swollen tongues. blizzards in flesh. the adamant angle of trust. so severe. soft wings. lapping at the wind. parched stories tell her. in fits of thirst and panics of hunger.

the quiet beasts. the small wounds. that fester to infection. such as we are. will always be. a labor of diseases. swimming just below the surface. cracked syringes drowning in the vaccine.

the obvious math of strangers. reciprocity's stale lament. all her fractions weighted. templates in the skin. chase in empty fists. closed doors whisper. and windows scream. while all these deaf hours remain oblivious.

the quiet collaboration. tender ghosts shuffle their bandages. gambling scabs for flesh. it's a hollow journey. naked bones that thoughtlessly echo every vacant step. the patterns twist and choke. a careless series of tourniquets.

a life of shallow middles. a suicide of edges.