A Mild Cancer

Face first down the mountain. Every shadow counting how far we've fallen. A vein in every arm of the river. Each pebble a bit of drug. Too far from hell. Too close to heaven. As life often is.

Sewn to the purple sky as it prepares to rain again. In careless stitches. Garments that only make us more naked. When the moon has its cap atop its bald, bald head. And all the stars coo from empty cradles. Then we are born. Desperate buoys in endless oceans. Calmly marking the divide between recreation and dying.

Little gods in short skirts slinging their sagging tits. Biased scales. Weigh the remains of our happiness. In manpower.

As the lights go out again.