the places have no names. they're only vague thunder echoing from a fading storm. transparent bridges over imagined depths.
we go softly into that roar. wearing every face like an alarm. letting the wind collapse the walls rather than opening the doors.
running out loud. running on the dents in our feet. high on the crisis. swift with rage. chasing a hunger that's impossible to feed.
selling our surrender for pennies on the dollar. building our bridges from deceit and skin.