Pumpkin Patches

A quiet place to die. That's what this is. Fucking river. I have plenty of paddles. No boat.

A lonely place to die. This is. Myself the cage.

I swim. I'm always swimming. There's no land.

They're all just fire engines after the building is burned down. They're just ladders after the stairs have collapsed.

Why. Why would I try to go up there. Just to fall again.

Embrace the bottom. Lose the mirror. It all looks the same.

Fucking river. So many paddles. No boat.

I'm floating. But there'll be no more swimming.

The land. It lies. It's always shifting.

So why give it the satisfaction of fooling me again.

These ugly hours have no name. Falling on the sill like mysterious raindrops. The sky is melting.

It feels so right.

All the real gone from the world. We were sails without a mast. Puddle of fabric imagining we could capture the wind.

We went nowhere so fast.

I want to go nowhere again.