the echo spun. an orbit of spoiled answers to questions that were still unripened.
the flesh is primitive. all battery acid and thunderstorms. power and want creating a volatile explosive. we stir our numbers. counting backward from the end.
negotiating the precipice with a vacuum full of feathers. opening the scars like rusted zippers.. caressing the monsters as their claws dig in.
our words tell us with a stab and a tickle. we are eviscerated by the folly of our own dominance.
spending our monsters in small coins.
stealing our maps from strangers.
our bodies writhe in the hurricane of touch.
we tug on the edges of time. our future subsumed by our past.
the ache is soft as the blade is removed.
the window is clear. the door is locked.
still, distance assembles its staircases.
and gravity seldom forgives.
Sunday
5/29/2022 11:25:00 PM
| Life Poems |