She dreams in flesh. Nightmares of meat. Like impotent dictators. Each revolution an artist. To interpret. The distance is not far, but the journey is.
parallels. a feast of soldiers. in a war of souvenirs. distracted by the nothing that carves the world from this thunder. storms loud enough to envy. as they tremble so close to the sun. the blunt whisper of choice. dampens the shadowy areas of her dress. she presses the storm to her forehead and listens for the silence to confront her.
the chase leaves her limbs hot with sweat and blood. this long pretense of when finally cracks. abandoning the hunger in pursuit of the taste. Eager stingers on the shoulder of the wind. heavy with the poison
the universe on its hind quarters. the moment drenches in conditions. every breath a single candle against a relentless darkness.
the monsters have their reasons. the men their brute charms. but a woman is neither Satan nor God. just something equally as sinister.
What is lost will find us.
Tuesday
5/29/2012 12:33:00 AM
| Life Poems |