Monday 11/30/2009 02:15:00 AM

Listen. Blunt boxes trouble themselves with our future. The autonomy of broken skin wears its dominion in thick punches. To the face. Bottles to easy to lift. Find their way. To my lips. As empty as I know they always were.

Working the calculus. In prevalent theorems. The shiver of the Numbers. Teases a truce.

That this war has an end. That this nightmare can be woken from. That closed eyes see much better. Than blind ones I once trusted.

Barbarians flaunt their pitchforks. Their pointy wheels. Roll mercilessly through the terrain. As the future takes over. Unwilling to explain.

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