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.
orphans scratch out the tenuous diaries of circumstance and skin.
no silver fists to prove our mettle. nor tattered buckets in which to collect our missing pieces.
we continue to chase the world. even as its claws shred our flesh. stiffened by corners that only get sharper.
paupers of why in an aristocracy of when.
their faces all gone. their lies long since spent.
the premise is corrupt.
the end yawns and we are discarded.
trembling blades in a forgotten war.
we say we don't remember.
as time slits its wrists and bleeds all over us.
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| alcoholicpoet.com |
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| by alcoholicpoet.com |
the end echoes. nervous fingers wear their resolve in zeroes and ones. the binary chokes on the numbers. spending us in an array of panic and discord.
walking on numb feet. dancing on missing limbs. lost in a profound inertia.
time forks. and we are taken by both paths. divided. impotent ogres in a devastating fairy tale. a collision of catalysts drowning in the science of now.
let it wait. wrinkles in the storm. voices in the panic. let it find. the open sores.
the crisis of when. the vanity of how. fragile kingdoms flaunt their impotent czars.
the slope beckons. ripe with gravity's rapacious drag. the zipper opens. the skeleton is exposed.
the angle is corrupted. the velocity is disturbed. the minor epiphanies of lovers and wolves.
the words breathe. the paper creases.
the weather flaunts its whispering fangs. a catastrophe of skin. sour with irrevocable choices. the simmering conflicts of threshold and conviction. a pantomime of dead things.
she spent the road. a currency of solitude and indifference. she collected her wealth. in isolation and apathy. negotiating with the wind. as the storms came and went.
dancing to the hum of the soldiers. as the war insisted. coloring in the silhouettes as the future slouched toward its inevitable end.
the curious discipiles of schrodginer selling their stories to the highest bidder.
the posion in the box remaining a vague reminder. of the dwindling distance between chaos and consent.
an hyssterical repetition in the futility of flesh.
disonant authors spend their skin. in a tapestry of addictions. in a condition of confession. the bend in the horizon. as the sun cuts the darkness. the pale merger of touch. as it sweeps over the skeleton. a panic of blood in a desert of humanity.
the tepid mosaic. sparse souvenirs of when. like fragments of lightning. flickers of gravity. a panic of pleasures.
the wind spent her. pennies against the current. the simple monsters that wager this flesh. wind.
the dark took her. the dusty thieves that imagine our futures.
seldom choices let her fall. her decisions like cold evidence in a lingering trial.
the curious poisons. as stale as they've become. we wager the darkness. in empty needles and urgent corruptions.
kings in their faded robes.
he was obvious. the simple arithmetic of lung and heart. numbers lost on equations more organic. he was only sinew and skeleton. a brittle treasure map full of promises and nothing more. eager angles at the corners of our escape.
the engine blisters.the road is spent. every touch a wager. wolves and woodsmen in the fairy tale of sober.
all her choices fraying rope.
warm winds in the dead of winter. open windows in the pouring rain. the fleeting paradise of gods and men.
heavy buckets with so many holes in them.
silence is a dull blade. wandering cuts. shallow and jagged. distribute their pain in whispers. meandering bridges chase the din. this chaos of touch that promises relief.but mostly infects.
the journey possesses. greater than velocity, less than mass. the science is strict. the interpretation more lenient. the itch is deep. too deep to scratch. still we venture further in.
the colors remember. thick with the panic of when. All long dresses and sweet, sweet songs. as we take a moment to pretend there's still more than there is less.
reasoning with the math. she finds the decimal is in the wrong place.
too close. too close is always a danger.
the threat of taste. the loyalty of skin. permanent wagers on temporary conditions.
only the needle remains. after all the holes have been mended. only that small knot. to hold all those stitches in place.
The apples still in the garden are left to rot.
the cold forms its thin crust. brittle nails struggling to hold together rotting wood.
the winter arrives anemic, yet heavy. a stained blanket. ripe with urine. and dying things.
time stops at some point. or rather it gives up. crumbles like so much stale bread.
the walls wither. the hours wheeze. this cancer they call life consumes all the living.
the brittle boards pretend a floor. the choking flame imagines light. but the darkness knows our deepest secrets.
time whispers in the gnarled folds of broken skin. wounds still alive long after the scars have smothered them. time doesn't heal. it only forgets.
the stir of gravity. like butter. melting into blood. the acquaintance of skin. the perjury of touch. tightening its knots.
she reasons with the drug. slopes in the darkness. trembling doorways.
it's everything. it's always been that. it's the whole world. in the sneeze of a butterfly. it's time. hydrogen atoms defying gravity. triangles doling out their limited degrees. it's the science of how. whispering loudly in a universe of ifs.
concrete fingers try to bend. to grasp. but only break. they keep what they've always had. but fail to gain anything new.
closed eyes save their sight. against the blinding of the eclipse. but miss the epiphany of overwhelming darkness. they're all just stories anyway. vibrating flesh caught in an emotional sieve.
there are no wars. there is no army. just people. trying on bits of weather and hunks of distance. there's just the void. talking to itself. in broken crayons and burnt matches.
there aren't names. we forfeit such privileges. there aren't friends. we have other definitions for those occasions.
the warm winters fool her. every time. a short gasp of faces. breath more distance than journey. soft footprints the wind always erases. leaving us lost. yet content to be.
the edges whisper and spark. the mad combination of fire and darkness. the edges scream. boulders breaking free from the mountain. stones defying the heavy chorus of gravity.
the cold winters come. eventually. in stark angles that proliferate shadows. spies in her heart. revealing rooms she never knew were empty.
naming the corners. each wall another skin. the chaos of the structure. concealing the weakness of the skeleton. the merchant in her math. sells her one more chance. the seldom in her poetry. fumbles with the answers to the questions she's afraid to ask.
time flaunts its cliched cancers. blood boasts its pitiful cures.
always.
eventually.
all of us.
embrace the disease.
yellow chokes in the blueing panic. blunt daggers make their shallow incisions. the ladders wheeze and bend. like stale lies in the stubborn epiphany of regret. the seldom skin plays. like leaking buckets. heavy with too much nothing. the innocent poison of knowing them. trembling with cuts much deeper than intended.
the light left on. for the darkness to defend. the moment's blunt swords. make their creases. but fail to draw blood. it's the same old black all too familiar. it's the same one last puzzle pieces that always fails to complete the image.
the blossoming greys. the trembling reds. like some awful sunset/ this hollow prison we call flesh. the stubborn warden that is the skeleton.
the hours rage. small infernoes. flaunt the geometry of pleasure. in a watercolor of faces. the candy. scrapes out its path. in mealy apples and shouting pears.
the numbers strain to listen. as deaf gods pretend to hear.
the quiet alarms of lovers and addicts. swallow their thorns. and bleed their maps.