Thursday 9/01/2016 12:26:00 AM

quiet ghosts make their way through the wall. the path is narrow, yet long. rabid shadows devour the turns. so we go.

slouching into the belly of the wind.

busting windows. breaking doors. armed with fragments of a forgotten happiness and the soiled maps that still remember it. crippled beasts spent by gravity's treasons.

 the winding journey swells in our fists. absent direction, yet urgent of purpose.

 the lie tells us. full of vigor and ripe to passion. the lie is intimate. and blind to a fault. the thirst clutches. with its dull razors and its ambivalent conspirators. the appetite withers, but the hunger is persistent.

 moments become us. stolen graces in the theory of if. the perjury of choices. judged by cruel nostalgia. the heart is a predator. love is its claws. we grow old in our skins. and weary of our leashes. pulling. always tightening the knots that are choking us.

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