i was a vulture. death was my feast.
we lied. pretended it was momemtum. though we weren't moved.
it was bright at first. the loud surrender of conceit. as it peeled away the dead skin.
then it was dark. simple fits of knowness. threading their needles. mending the holes.
we're little more than chemistry and adjectives. as we navigate these empty stages. the play long since acted. the audience forgotten.
i don't know what we are. or what we might have been.
all that i know. all i have.
is what we're not.