the world ends in torn paper and faded ink. all nicked skin and bruised bones. time pants and snarls. a wolf on a chain. consumed by the scent of the meat. all ripe apples and sour candies. the garden forgets. the footprints remain.

we toil in our indecision for what seems like eternity. sick with each moment. poisoned by hope. the edge tempting some vague vaccine.

just red. needles and pins. stubborn skin whispering stories. in blood and infection.

the years betray. touch is a treason.

the world ends in pencil and crayons. a puzzle of colors. as loud as it is complicated.

all her fickle dolls. sing their chorus of when. apathy's obvious detours. the lilting lyric of surrender. each is perfect in its own way.

the edge whispers. thick with uncertainty and optimism. all melon rinds and chocolate sauce. adrift in a sea of vinegar choices.

paper flowers boast their creases as the time machine winds down.

stagnant devils in the emperor's robes.

these bodies a sickly kaleidoscope. of expectation and sweat. what isn't for purchase is still easily spent.  the pinnacle of humanity resides at the bottom of a kiss.

every touch is a fresh wound. every word a new infection.

this stubborn war still declares us. the evolution of surrender is an endless arc. an empty poison in a full cup. we drink it all, yet still we remain unquenched.

crippled demons beating their wings as the fire rises.

the distance has its way of swallowing everything. making us small. all these places have their intoxicating panic. the addictive hysteria of lost.

too far is not enough.

the devil draws the sign posts. the traveller decides the map.

all these places. like countless bee stings and the broken metaphors of recurring strangers. it's a penny in the well. a wish well spent.

the years ignore us. we are not there. nor ever were. shadows hitchhiking on the whims of the sun.

the path finds us. sick with gravity. and more than willing to fall.

the places find us. as places must. the color in the drug. the demon behind the desk. checks his calculations. we always forget how cold it was. wearing those graves.

we are always consequences. never reasons.

candy coated darwins in their velvet shoes. reluctantly play the mockingbird to a long series of quiet apocalypses. in circles we navigate. the blind changing lanes. through black mirrors and pale saviors.

the yellow. the crumbling narrow. sharp like dice. as the final bet cuts the fetlt. the impossible. the distance more promise than truth. liars and madmen. like ragged garland and sour rice.

a thoughtless parade. ripe with conditions. green gods in their fraying capes carefully name each sin.

alone in needles. the darkness in stitches. gropes for the knots we've left slip.

she screams, but most people are deaf. they can't listen. even if they wanted to.

stout leashes and stilted confessions are the poetry of addiction. the bones bend. the skeleton stretches. each of us. a feather in a vaccum.

a stone splitting the water. ready to drown.

she whispers. because quiet is incredibly loud..