Sunday 6/20/2010 12:11:00 AM

Patience she has learned has few rewards. Other than perspective. Time machines she knows are untrustworthy devices. That have left her stranded more often than not. Stiff gods covered in red lipstick. Hoping someone will call for a whore.

Until then they solicit the weak.

Everything is paid for. Every prayer is a debt to be collected.

Axes through the belly of the wolf. Dead children. And the breadcrumbs they left. For us to find them. Witches. In their candy houses. Tempting the fever of want. Traces of the wart still on her hand. As the monsters retreat.

She used to count, but lost track. The picture still in its frame. The broken glass distorting what she can remember.

Of vacant boxes that would lie there in her dark attic. Waiting on someone to see. How far they've travelled to leave here.

Her deaf walls listening. As she confessed. The world to be an afterthought. The panic of nervous gods. Selling their heavens. To anyone fool enough to make the purchase.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.