waiting. the cumulative paradox. there are always tangents. it's the nature of choice. the mediocrity of freedom.
wearing the moment recklessly. bargaining with the monsters. stealing the story from lazy predators.
the folds collapsing. the shapes defiant. paper skin redolent of missing ink. as the hours continue their quiet bleeding.
the sound of resistance conceding.
you spend so much time at the edge that you begin to think gravity is only a suggestion. that falling isn't real.
you wander so far off course you begin to doubt that there was ever a map. that you've never been anywhere.
i think that the world ends mute. all choked up and self involved. a tedious orgasm that never fully pays off. i think that the world ends with soft words and loud pictures. an arrogant eruption of nothing in a echo of listening.
because the world is like us. we are like it. stones trying to count the thunder. pebbles arguing with the ocean. villains more savior than threat.
humanity has a way of making every crime into a discovery.
the winter tells those same stories differently than the summer did.
the voice in her head. her truth. chalk wrestling the wind.
her voice. the tedious devils. the inadequate angels. the paradox of flesh coming undone.
ample fever amongst these eager diseases.
lost amongst the confessions of failing gods.
the poet. the writer. the addict. everything in collision. their ample confluence. depleted needles still deep in the vein.
the sharp spoil of the vaccine. as she maligns the absence of the infection.
the time machine in her flesh as lost as she is.
she's waiting for the rain to stop. she's been waiting such a long time.
she's willing to wait a little while