The Apocalypse According to Mother Goose

we run up the hill. so sure of ourselves. 

puppets on time's stiff strings.

chewing on all the knots

that we've created.


eventually, we tumble down it. 

negotiating the truth at every bruise. 

snakes with paper fangs

selling their expired venoms. 

time and time again,

we reach the apex. 

only to discover that

the bucket we carry is full of holes.