Dark Poetry: Spoiling Cartographers

 we were listening to the machine. feverish acolytes of all the places it had promised to take us. 

the sting of the rain in our throats as the storm danced across our skin. 

they were tracing the outline of the sun. blinded by our obedience. 

the fervent pantomime of faith stumbling through their words. 

small creatures drowning in flesh that's much too deep. 

they spin on their tails. hapless authors of a fiction they cannot concede. 

the scrape of time poisoning every truth. 

we were listening to the machine. divining its purpose from the smirk of our hypocrisy. 

adamant it could take us home. in spite of the fact that it's never moved.