11 Inches and 15 ounces

the empty penetrates. bent needles. dry syringes. humble diseases. linger on the end of her lips. all library paste and old magazines. alone becomes us. in rained on parades and faded colors.

it's cold. all yellow nightmares on barren roads. all eyes. no voices. just angry stares.

it's dark. chasing gravity through back doors in the sun. seldom villains and absentee heroes. no path. only the dying echo of the life that came before this one.

it's hot. everything is white. blurred. and chaotic. flesh collides. words fall apart.

it's bright. so loud. all hungry crows fighting over the carrion.

the edge is sharp. it draws blood as I approach it. the edge is elegant and hopeful. ripe with so much falling.