Primal

The ladders leaning on the fragile glass. The windows open to the hiss of world. In drops of poison that make us strong. Another foolish attempt to rescue the dead.

Painting with her fingers. Speaking with her breasts. The nervous portrait in her attic growing old at last. Feeble ghosts tempt the darkness. With parables of flesh and blood. All the frivolous atrocities they can't forget. Brown apples in her sweet pie. Spoiled vegetables in her garden.

The humble earth. The distant sun. And more rain that I thought possible. The lingering thirst. The turning screws. A decision ripe with consequence. As if the voice could tell. Or the eyes ever show. The monster that lurk.

A fist. A choice. An atom rogue. Challenges the numbers that guess at the physics of alone.