Empty Cocoons

The hours proliferate. Empty graves. Sure to be filled. Cracked dolls. Their tongues in their rotting hands. Scribble on the walls that keep them blind.

I watch the moon dance. In brief plagues. Diseases adapted to rather than cured. I watch the world. Each half spinning in opposite directions. Waiting for it to break apart. Spill the contents of its bloody womb. Harmless monster. Grunting in the shadows. Terrifying those too scared to look.

The world decides. Who I am. Will be. Can. In slanted elections. And spurious confessions. The ugly passes for beautiful. Since we've forgotten what that is.

This bleakness convinces hope in the desperate. Tragedy engineered to keep us complacent. Believing our time will come. But it won't.

The scar wears her face. With a profound confidence. The disease slips into her limbs. Like a lavish party dress.

This massive world yawns. And we are swallowed up in its boredom.