Brown-Grey Graves on Soft Sad Hills in Angles Too Poetic

the world ends on the tip of her pen. a subtle chaos more content to linger than to protest. the hovering clouds. the intricate choices. a diary of how far we are from any given gods.

time begins at the base of her breasts. and stops at her lips. the shape of the world is woman. the rest of us just bend to fit.

she discussed with the atoms. the simple things. the obvious ladders. as the storm predicts.

the world ended yeaars ago. a series of bridges. more detour than path. she gambles her seasons on hollow wiinters.  and stubborn solutions to mutable monsters. the sweet of candy houses. the sour of patient corpses.

the awful lies that have always known. the extremes of flesh. the many potent treasons that fuel the hearts of men. just a solitairy tomorrow on the sharp edge of her grin. like a distant song pissing its music into the gusting wind.

the words stall. dense with stipulations the maze yawns. the rodents swallow the corridors. the experiment becomes us.

the world in bridges. so much drowning underneath it. the shadows loud. the confusion dense enough to bleed.