what we are. empty caskets in seldom funerals. flesh turns in its process. all missing words and hungry truths. 

the monsters have their claws. the heroes have their blades. though the tales they tell are only borrowed victories.

the math betrays. our glorious nothing. 

we are stung. by time's dirty needles. curs on long leashes. seduced by our cages. 

what we are. strangers in soiled costumes. defied by our own deceits. 

the flesh has its own measures. scales that cannot be fooled. every touch precisely weighed. 

we are undressed. cut by love's sharp zippers. and left to bleed. 

sometimes we are taken. by what we do not know. sometimes we go willingly. into the unknown. 

as our choices leave us naked. and our trust gradually goes stale. still our journey moves us forward in spite of itself.

strangers in familiar masks. 

the amber in their voices hardens. the perfume in their nearness fouls. 

sometimes we are taken. sometimes we are chosen. 

predators drowning in the subtle difference between tragedy and hope. 

liars in familiar clothes. 

the poison in their choices so loud. 

sometimes we are taken. 

sometimes we let them go. 

how softly the corner turns us. our eyes still full of places yet to come.

the monsters seldom gave chase. though we sometimes wish they had.

stranded in the absence of something to hate.

slouching toward paradise in bloody gowns. our hollow kingdoms still burning. 

even as the last of their fires is extinguished.

we play the thief. though there is nothing left to steal.

we continue to give. though everything has been taken.

we wear the truth in jagged crowns. 

smiling as the blood runs downs our faces. 

 the hungry suspect toils in his obvious disease. more sick than overcome.

a protracted caution to the end of the world. softly counting the future's remaining debt. 

something discarded that is never truly lost. 

unlikely protagonists in the foul histories of broken men. 

the victim wears his cuts in stubborn stains. fortified by the courage of want.

something so gentle that easily destroys us. 

the window cracks. the villain grins. 

the animals pace in their cages. 

something wholly unexpected. that we never knew how much we needed it. 

strangers in familiar faces. wear our torn skins. 

the pendulum tells us. the sway of needfulness. the weight of expectant lies. 

fragile dolls in torn dresses. move through our mazes. their cotton fingers unravelling. as they try touch the exit. 

the shimmer of grief stains our plastic skeletons.

we knock on the walls of those hollow rooms. fumbling thieves. desperate for egress.

searching for doors in a labyrinth of ceilings.

overcome by the quiet. seduced by the delicate poison of indifference. 

all our questions asked. 

all our answers given. 

the empty rooms gather their windows. 

and we finally break the glass.  

blunt corners tease the math. as we stumble over the angles of our circumstance.

our empty picnic baskets still heavy with everything that's been forgotten.  

we turn to face the wolf. 

our choices blind. the questions deaf. 

the slippery dichotomy of trust. 

each answer a deeper bruise.

the treachery of touch our only constant. 

as time crawls under our skin. 

and we are lost.

sacrificed to what might've been.