time she surmised had its own agenda.
a path meticulously situated between corruption and salvation.
sharp dice in the hands of strangers.
speckling every victory with someone else's blood.

choice she supposed had tried too hard.
a sunken variable.
stranded in a sseries of unsolved equations.

it continued to function,
though everything about it was wrong.
an arrogant parade of limping assassins.
all their precious bullets wasted on the dead.

time she assumed was deaf.
a student of all the words it couldn't hear.
the simple truth much more complicated
than she had anticipated. 

choice she noticed
was a fragile construct. 
its straw house being the first to collapse.
when the wolf  comes to call.

the road swallowed her.
step by step.
in sunken victories.
and stilted surrenders.

she always wore the future
in its tightest clothes.
every crevice grinning.
as those hungry zippers bit down.

it's obvious she whispered.
letting the distance continue to grow.
every intersection stutteering.
as she pretended to know where she was going. 

it's a parody of some kind. 

to think that we can control
the myriad of trees falling

in our forest unheard.

skin makes so many promises
that we can never hope to keep. 
the curious convictions of 
animals loosed from their cages. 

our claws are red for a reason.
the road continues because
there are more places we must go. 

time yawned.
disenchanted with our simplicity.

it fell asleep in her bed.
napping on her wrinkled sheets.
unaware of all the monsters lurking below.

she took a taste as its buttons fell away.
tempted by the curious anatomy of choices.

she whispered her desires in distance's ear.
knowing it wasn't listening.

worn by lingering questions.
undressed by strangers.
sorting her math with the decimals she'd misplaced.

the value of skin fluctuating like the dubious commodity is it.
the tables she thought were finished turning still had other plans.

places she confessed had always been her weakness.

the where too aggressive. the when too sharp.

and the why always scribbling with broken pencils. 

time she lamented always impressed her.

their lengthy arguments much more thrilling than their outcomes. 

and all the ugly intersections where we almost met. selling coincidence and calling it fate. 

life's stubborn hourglass swallowing the last of her dwindling sand. 

everything is a fraction. or so she thought. 

as she dared the end to prove her wrong. 

feeble gods in the fist of change. promising entry to heaven through hell's unlatched gate. 

love she had always assumed was a prefection equation. a confession  written in skin. 

meant to convict her of a crime that she'd never committed. 

her box was empty. or so she thought. since she couldn't see what it contained. 

the road is hungry as we stumble over its gaping jaw.
the hunt is a curious beast.
all dressed up in our empty skins.

time is a feral creature. all growls and claws.
we wander. feathers in our vacuums.
watching everything around us fall.

running because that's what we've always done.
running because where we're going is so impatient. 

the distance is a perfect measure.
the  temerity of beginning to end.
solves us all, eventually. 

the road is uneven as we discover our pace.
pins and needles in the cold extremities of ambition.

we run.
because theres's always something more to chase.