Fables Purchased by Impotent Wolves

 we wear the colors of consent. in all their jagged pieces. 

tasting our shame in lingering isotopes. spent in the pangs of change.

the numbers taste our blood. the sweet and sour of ambivalence keeps count. 
as our wagers overcome us.

the machine is a constant. a universe unto itself residing within. 
lurching forward. and crawling back.

crippled by the treacherous ambitions of flesh.

we try on each stranger. desperate for one that fits. 

time the only arbiter as we wriggle out from under each other's skin. 

we summon what remains of our voice. searching for words where none matter. 

gathering our demons as we approach the door to heaven.