Falling Bricks

Her round eyes flaunted their corners. As she blinked against the darkness. An empty pot. A hit of meat to her nostrils. And then panic. The world too hot to manage. The machine overused at best. She could go back. And she could not stay where she was. A hot lamb awaiting the shears. And eventual slaughter.

In small handwriting he confessed. The many weights inside his chest. Lifting her up. As high as he was able. Imagining a butterfly. Gently sneezing in his grip. He pondered whether such a tiny hiccup could come back to spoil his oppression.

No need for hurricanes. Or blizzards. Just a little push. From something small enough to notice. The blink of an angel's eyes. Or the scent of a demon's breath.

She grew old as he tried to love her. Forgetting it more, the marathon, as each mile collapsed. Into a sinewy fret of cardboard and nightmare. That only possesed meaning to the back of her eyelids.

Searching for the stairs. The steps evolving as she struggled. Fighting with the hills at every turn. Assuming mountains where only valleys waited for the next of her steps.

Palling on her laurels. Stubborn with the cadence. Of those faulty machines that had given her this second glance. Gathering her house of straw. In the shadow of the wolf.