Monday 3/01/2010 12:54:00 AM

It's only alone. Letting you know its there. In little itches and weak splints. For too many broken bones. The random villains and derelict heroes. In the sparsely populated kingdom of our hope.

The tornado in her fist tells her the darkness will be coming back. And she'll never know when. Or for how long.

Her stockings in their cylinders. Opening the locks. Islands undone. Along with the men that would want them. Tall trees and telephone poles. On a collision course. With the lights out she knows it's only loneliness. That makes the world this small.

Touching the glass with a delicate hand. As she collects. Each piece of window. And begins to solve the puzzle. Of which came first. Sight or blindness.

Funeral or corpses. Gods or men.

Not that she doesn't already know.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.