Monday 1/30/2012 12:17:00 AM

clay roads find her. absent excuses. the cold like fingers. touches gently at first. quuckly grabs hold. the hours forget us. mud on their shoes. vague footprints in the journey of the wind.

liars. these scars that pretend to know. the difference. that there is one. between victim and villain.

she has her puppets. made of smoke rather than felt. she has her stages. all dark. alive only with the echoes. of deafeated gods and hopeless devils.

time stubbornn. raging ambient pulse. thundering in the deaf ears of the defeated and the hopeless.

her tits are crayon nubs. bleeding color into the outlines of strangers. there are no pictures. nothing real. only hours. arrogant like hares. humbled by the tortoise.

alone in their race. lost. in their small definition of winning.

there are no truths. except those which came before. the gravity of this trench. the distance. that spoils flesh to solve itself. a series of numbers. stiff with the attraction. between. ledge and impact. a conversation far too brief.

the stilts of science betray her. heaven is not near enough at all. the stars conspire to their surrender. long dead before she can see. demons are so much more forgiving than angels are.

choices like needles. bursting with salvation. a wealth of numbness. gods in every corner. devils in each doorway. the paradox of flesh. counting pieces of glass with fingers made of stone.

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