Quiet Apocalypse

the names that choose us are fragile beasts. all corners and leverage snarling at gravity.

the skins that we wear seldom fits. broken templates. all rain and wind slouching toward crumbling horizons.

the distance that measures us is a frail conceit. all stones and mud arguing with the wind.

the equation isn't constant. we are victims of our own fickle arithmetic.

we touch each other through our decaying masks. caressing faces long since dead.

we move through the world in cages made of contrition. 

impotent thieves. constantly stealing what's being stolen from us.