The Short Ladder

More words. Like stinging bees. Ripping themselves apart to break free. Oh. The sting is only the kiss. First taste. Of forbidden things. The drone bravely pierces her skin. Only to find. Little underneath.

I could judge the war. I would any. On the basis of merit. What is saved. By so many deaths. I could judge myself the same way.

But flesh is not a battleground, so much as it is a strategy. Some will die. This is certain. Eventually time arrives. Replete with its malfunctioning devices. And I believe it.

Pieces shifting. Elongated square. As the board trips in and out of vision. A perfect trap. For the moment we've lost. Staring at the ocean. Wondering why. We listen to the sand.

Trying on those broken lullabies. Bribing the dark. With blunt pins.

Balloons in the sky. Flaunting their strings.

My fingers. Still grabbing at what's gone.