Knotted Apocalypse

the blue angle works the stitches. a hungry needle that swims through

soft dials on the hard machines. torn pictures. struggle with the gravity of light. the urgency of memory as we begin to forget. wrinkled dolls. their shrivelled fist. holding so tightly to the absence of something we hardly knew we possessed.

faith falls in stones. hope is an avalanche.

we keep counting. vacuous clocks. broiling on instinct. we keep looking. the blind clinging to that last moment of sight. kisses caress the wind. like so much vomit. the measure of touch. in dull shattered windows.

the addicts draw in fists. the sober in only touches. but both are wrong. 

quiet parades invite an ugly audience. to lingering funerals.

her villains are simple. it's the heroes that can't be trusted.