Devastating Patterns

She sat on a soft corner of the globe. Nothing to do, but wait. For the world to catch up. Plastic legs. And hairs that never grow back.

She talked to stubborn gods. Content behind their sunglasses. Yellow bricks long since laid. In complex equations. Flying monkeys condemned to hunt. For the witches. That were integral to life. The atoms confiding in them. How tired they are. Of fusion.

Wake up. The mirror demanded. As she slept too deep. Try on these coffins. How dead are you since. you last shoved the witch into her oven. Chewed on the candy canes that kept her house standing.

I already know what's out there.

So much nothing.

It's what's within that puzzles. The cliff that I peer over. As the bottom beckons. The moist asphalt under my toes. As I walk. On these lazy epiphanies.

The humble of touch. Sweeping the dust from bones repeatedly mended. The choir of skin echoed in her footsteps.

As she walks off again.

I'm an egg. Break me. She whispered. You overlook the obvious. I'm the number. As your feet count the steps. Up to heaven. Only to discover. It won't let you in.

I'm the devil In thong underwear. Mouth to the tailpipe. Keeping the garage door shut. The numbers are a suicide. Flirting with stubborn islands.

The paradox means nothing. Tickling the atom. Its calm laugh erupting.

The pattern is touch. A sequence I'd do just as well to foget.