Tuesday 5/14/2013 01:13:00 AM

the grey bird sang in soft tones. bent wings flew her closer. but she never reached it. that imaginary place. others called home.

she screamed that it was a parade. she wept that the monsters didn't care. alone in her hysteria. for all the world to disdain. heavy hammers and broken bulbs. flaunting the story of her madness. between dim walls smudged with hope. and other such alluring frailties.

she draws in skin. with her hungry paper. singing songs that no one else can hear. whispering stories that only listen. never tell.

the world ended years ago. she's just waiting for her blood to notice. the infection. eager addicts with far too many exits.

playing songs. soft lullabies pretend her voice. words she's only ever imaigined saying. and all the lies she's told only to herself. the rumble. the earthquake. torn shoelaces. fumbling hte path. that finds us this close to the edge.

the words. the obvious conditions. biting down on the stick. waiting. for the words to remember. us.

the stale kindness of erupting skin. the earnest intent. of broken zippers and empty buckets. the selfish lies that are told by the flesh. they name us. in numbers and fractioms. they push away the clouds, but eventually give in

alone has it's way with her. ean easy rape. a quiet hopeleessness.

that still pretends to know what is missing.

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