Tuesday 11/30/2010 12:16:00 AM

Patterns draw themselves across the numbness. Years in brittle leaves that crumble against the dire thrust of the wind. The cold comes calm and abrupt. Like all monsters will. With clenched fists and torn eardrums. Trying to grab. Desperate to hear. What teases in the distance.

Patterns she instructs. Are not chosen. Are not to be deciphered. They watch. They decide. Whether or not we fit.

Every number is a whore. Giving away the things that have cost us too much. Selling for pennies what we assume to be priceless. The ladder stops short of infinity. Teasing at its dominance.

No end. No beginning. Only the hours pressed between. Gravity and choice. That make the void so tempting.

Patterns. Cowards and victims. The subtle equilibrium of naked dolls. Pigs. And whores. Frail machines and impotent monsters. Beating on reflections in the glass. Countless. Growling. Gaping holes. Separating the disease from the cure.

Patterns she claims. Are all that we are. A long series of stumbles. Slouching towards Bethlehem.

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