how quietly we withered. soft bones embracing the sun. no words. just voices too old to recognize.

prices paid without exception. empty songs. that linger. the poison of absent choices.

time keeps count. the ubiquitous measure of decay. a rotting art. life in curious tangles. and hungry knots.

light decides. taken from. and given away. always waiting to be seen. 

the humble perseverance of the angle telling its desperate lies. and the ugly flesh that convinces us to believe them.

the atoms have their weight. and gravity has its contextual velocity. like the hum of words as they break our hearts. or the strike of our feet as we chase the pavement.

either way. we're always falling.

 we waited. lost in the conjugation of skin. the language of choice arrogant with complexity.

all those sharp corners cut the same as the dull ones. it was only the shape of the scars that varied.

the electrons danced in their orbits. chasing the absent observers that had created their paradox.

time she knew always kept its pencils sharp. even when there were no more pictures to draw.

the distance tied its knots too tightly.

she was much too patient. waiting for the string to break.

the photons traveled through the slit. wondering whether someone had seen.

hope is an unreliable narrator. of obvious stories.

she counted the edges. determined to measure the uncertainty.

time polished its remaining coins.

but the well had run out of wishes. 

tenured atoms split their arbiters. 
the heavy drape of faltering kings.

the future insists. 
more friction than grease.

the weight of when tenders its applause, 
in hollow pragmatists.

gravity discards its scales. 
we all fall at the same speed.

we fumble with the fragments of our skin. 
fractured patterns in a stolen mirror. 

the remnants of our courage
too exposed to solve its puzzle.

the darkness sputters.
nearly frail enough to trust.

old time machines sharpen their claws. .
hungry for our corpses. 

 time comes and goes. a tyrant in the folds of our skin. 

full of duplicitous fractions as the math solidifies between us.

our words convince us. the simple helix that connects all these empty spaces.

the rabbit collects her stories. in broken grass and vacant dens.

we wear our victims. in dirty knees and spoiled lips.

the distance swallows. quietly. a beggar in the creases of our trust.

overwhelmed by the simplicity of our wants.

a string. riddled with knots. dancing between disparate electrons. 

we tease the edge. arrogant curators of the void.  

waiting for gravity to catch up. 

time has simple rules. but touch is more complicated. a long hallway dense with doors we must unlock. 

we spin on gravity's slender strings. a catastrophe of atoms barely connected by the diminishing forces of circumstance. 

skin has obvious parameters. but want possesses infinite variables. 

we dance on the decaying inertia of arrogant choices. a cascade of expectation erupting. 

every window shattered. every room corrupted. 

we push the edge away. tumbling embers negotiate the abyss. 

the flame is paused. 

we slither into the dicarded skins. and remind the imposters. 

that we were alive once.

if only for an instant. 

she said the quiet had become too loud. all broken pencils and cracked chalkboards. in the relentless composite of want.

we searched the silence. stumbling as we did. over the fragile templates flesh insists. hopelessly indebted to the promises of when.

he built his bridges from the memories. hoping she would cross.

they spoiled in their friction. petulant children wanting another piece of candy.

she let the years overtake her. youth a fading treason.

they went there. all the miles churning like syrup. a sweet suffocation.

she was listening to the pain. dancing to its endless song.

loose skins wore their obvious thieves. a conjugation of patience. the labor of flesh. as the skeleton corrupts.

the color of when. empty rooms. the places they wish to be.

changes came and went. fevers spent on impotent diseases.

he panicked. threw all his apples into the mud. narrow angles coaxing the edges. clever thieves wearing the cold until it turns on us.

the sober math of lovers. counting backwards from nothing.

we squandered our days on spoiled atoms and sober molecules. eager children drowning in the pandemonium of our growth.

doses of how like a broken medicine. stumbling soldiers in a war of moments. all of our choices. feathers falling in a vacuum.

untamed particles chasing gravity.

play soft, fetid charms of waiting and impatient monsters. grip the tender scabs on shivering dolls. the stiffening air. the thinning corners. the chaos in their whispers difficult to ignore. the failing minutes grey enough for us all.

no sound. just engines in the darkness. rabid predators stripped of their claws. pacing at the base of utopia. quite disappointed. she folds. she creases. but does not tear. there is ink. and edges. and thundering margins. still the path is no different. and the edge remains just as sharp.

the narrow veins of time struggle to accomdate all the posions I choose to embrace. gentle tornadoes visit the truth upon waning ghosts.

a frenzy of skin. a panic of faces. time's appetite determined by our desperation.

the foul atom spoils for the stagnant nucleus. the weighted skeleton struggles against the skin. qeustionging the shape of every villain.

heavy scars like soup and bones. spoiling. the lost meat lingering. steeping in the foul baths of frail wars. the deaf soldiers of skin. and our words' blind warriors. perishing together in their thirsty apocalypse. patiently waiting. for our pencils to break. and our blades to bend.

the edges spoil us. with rabid temptations. consequence on the other side of dense walls.

sober songs put her to sleep. an invasion of flesh. more curtain than wizard. the fairy tale choking on the science. as the space comes forward to define us. so small we are. in the shadow of these crippled clouds. all empty limbs and weighted weapons. drag marks in the sand revealing the arc of our crawl.

quiet guesses. with their teeth in the bone. a thready rebellion of whispers and naked dolls.

the storm arises suddenly. the slumbering apocalypse. the end of the world in her fist. salt and atoms  dancing their last waltz. the space between us breathes. growing the disease that once was us.

yellow dolls. with frozen eyes. chase the sun. a long eclipse. forgets to end. time stops. though the chase continues.

practical hysterias. gentle crocodiles. all the madness fit for words or flesh. the arrogant ocean. the humble tide. the discrepancies. what i am. what is spent. proving otherwise. a mirror on the moon. reflecting. the light travels all the way back. not to be defeated by the distance.

the incredulous howl. choices. her impotent wolves. panting in the darkness.

the record skips. thoughtless music narrates the dance. between innocent villains and guilty heroes. the ashes. cold hunger lingers. the spark resolves. to absent songs. 

the stairs crumble. the walls fade. only thin glass is left between. the life we had and the one that's had us. skewed blades. bored with the blood. draw their pictures in shallow cuts.

loose skins coax the breeze. the storms are on their way. be patient. you'll die again. in your heavy pajamas with the seams all crooked. in your sunken bed with the sheets all wrinkled. in your hollow dreams with the muted villains. and the wounds that never bleed.

her quiet story is louder than it seems. her January has its reasons. days bargain softly with the edge of the world. life boasts its turpentine. seldom autumns solve for suicide.

smothering the cold in fits of skin. an hysteria of choices. living the needles. awkward seams chase the origins. nameless ghosts and shrinking heavens. pound the walls.

 confounded foxes. tease the hounds.

her quiet triumph wins her no prizes. the hunt goes on.

her thighs like blackjack. her nervous lips. chapped with fragments of when.

 stubborn time machines laughing out loud.

tremors in the void. wear her well enough. solvent conditions. tempted by the idle. casual encounters with a softer finish.

the night coughs. sicker still. with concrete cunts and broken cocks. the world is the same as her eyes. open wide, seeing nothing.

want compels the tiniest fibers and the biggest beasts. little pieces of glass tainting every step.

watching. as the dark is given to do. a focused confusion. an accordion of skin. breathes us out. swallowing the remains.

the process assumes the product. the future bleeds out of the past. little hammers in the choke of her fist.  blunt pens in the scar tissue. paint their scabs.

travelling quietly. through a shrinking world.

running on broken glass.

caution the stones. louder still. solves the darkness. in fits of silence. the edge approaches. charmingly close. the moment scratches. the future stabs. gravity swallows each in turn.

her words yellower still. fermenting. a quantum chaos. we are undone by both our future and our past. it's always changing. now is all we have.

screams and malice in piss and rainbows. open bridges teasing the ocean.

the simple lies that always become truth. like monkeys reciting bible quotes. to antagonize Darwin's ghost.

easy puzzles on the cusp of her skin. bare their solutions in quivering tones. alive decides her as each momemt confronts. a jigsaw of logic with edges made of flesh.

her hurried math mistakes invitation for commitment. her ugly experminent mangles the maze. lost again. among familiar walls. same journey. different path.

her voice pencil marks. the silence ink. suicide is a long process. of learning how to want. crumbling corners discover dying in all kinds of places.

the poison is rarely what kills. though it's taken every day. it's happiness that talks her off that ledge.

small boxes stew in the shadows. as hollow as they are. there's something inside them.

the end comes in whispers. everything else screams. but it's the angles that are often overlooked. they change the distance. they wrinkle the map in places no one can see.

it rains when she listens. it snows when she weeps. everything is her. yet she is nothing.

it's only ugly because they say it is. bruises in the bridge. and so much ocean to cross. drowning in the cold math of touch. she doesn't come up for air.

we live for seconds. we die for years.

he would dance to the song of her corduroy lips. base conditions fermenting sharply. on the solvent edge of relative time. the surface frivolous with gravity. falling. always falling. choreographing his words to the rhythm of her hips.

the temple dim upon approach. threaded randoms for the ratio. simmering armies wear the conflict. in failing fires. steal the quark. in a tunnel close. measure destiny by the circumference of her throne.

the hour paints with fingers in the pigment. stained fists and trembling fingers beseech the images already drawn. the colors sprint. toward some distant finish. while we wallow in our outlines.

impotent gods rattle the sky. ripe with the science of dolls accused. seeing loudly in a silence of soldiers.

solvent predators chase the swing. pressing the arc. withi arrogant division. there are no numbers. only breath to be sacrificed to the war.

the long rod bends to the short angle. it's not difficult to see why.

simple martyrs as they are. flesh and bone and the gentle beasts that dwell within. any number of imagined paradises waiting for them. and yet they are still afraid to die.

she opens too easily. secrets betrayed by missing buttons and broken zippers. yet she closes the same. snaps shut. abruptly. heavy doors at the whims of touch. open windwos pressing on the wind. shy kisses spurred by hunger.

the villain and the champion. same science. different catalyst.

the butterfly coughs. sick with change. the future masturbates to the arid feasts of despots and saviors. stories calloused by the pinch of gravity. the language of her lips. translating strangers.

the science of skin. the fractured gravity of men. not withstanding.

Dominoes. as linear as our perception of the world . Fingers. Moist with intent. And the things that lie between. Cold hands struggle to determine. What is the difference. Forward. Back. Simple breadcrumbs draw their jagged maps on vacant skin.

the world didn't end like we were promised.

so we remain. fickle valves debating with a flood of when. we knew all these strangers.

the world didn't stop like we had assumed it must.

arrogant children with too much knowledge and not enough experience. time came and went. disregarding the milestones of mortality and courage. time scores its path equally deep in each person's wrists. only some of us bleed.

the machine is swift and indifferent. a callous god not at all of our image. the chase is long and uneven. but constant is the hunt. 

hard things in the crust of her fist. playing each stone. as if every wall is deaf. the hollow songs of
touch. repating in an endless echo. like the entropy inside a wormhole.

we go too far.

the distance between us still lingering. long after we've found our way back. 

tense solid and bright. the static in her fist tremulous and excited. a rusting sword. in a dying war. a  sleeping song.  in an old woman's head.

teasing the wolf. with bits of straw and pork. a curios device. this living. this funnel of flesh. swallowing life in huffs and snorts. it always changes. sharp pencils hunt the ovals. the answers more collapse than bridge. the absolute of touch spoiling all expectations.

faces far too heavy. the timeline shudders. stiff with nervous arithmetic. a series of terrible lies and beautiful ones. mingle. like birth control for thoughts.

miniscule autumns burst from the winter. with sharp claws unwilling to retract. Talcomed dolls slant their hips and laugh. At the things we'll do to perpetuate fairy tales.

a malady of monsters. tries her on. a soft skeleton. a rigid skin. finds its way inside. the consent of war. stirs the pot. defers to the withces. of so many candy houses long gone. 

sleepless men argue with the wormholes. the pale art of want. in faded dishrags and barbed confesssions. soft drizzle stirs hints of  freedom.

she leans into the storm. seducing the destruction. from empty bottles and broken windows.

the snake in the crayon hisses colors. chokes on grey. the spider in the song. listens with eight eyes. sees with none. moments spread. the sickness has us convinced it was there from the beginning. 

we don't count the edges. crusts on the blade. we don't name the monsters. they wouldn't answer even if we did.

a fever of atoms. cut with sterno and resolve. vacant flames whittle the darkness down to bent arrows and pleated hearts.  a vast paper kingdom drowning in ink.

clay castles wear the rain. in comely grins. time twists, but never bends. empty robes flaunt the invisible emperor. temples of skin dense with sinew. the taste is a reflex. the swallow is a villain. the woods are everywhere. filled with witches.

simple candy houses that stroke the sun. in a long series of molested moments. grey gods with their hands in their pockets. assuming they have purchase.

on what has no price.

reason would let her die. passion would insist she live.

the numbers inbetween are anyone's guess.

the atoms expire in a maze of cunt and tits. the vacant beauty of breath. overcomes. ardent pieces surrender to division.

the muscle. the bone. this homogenous epiteth of labor. more sex than skin. a plateau of poisons. each one weaker than the last. the curdling storm collapses upon the land. sour winds whisper hungry words upon starving breath.

wind and warts and gelid vengeance. a feast of resentment nourishes the unfed.

timid like the first flame before it had a chance to burn. loud now. a searing prison of escape and fetid ambilvalence.

the theater of her skin. poets and madmen. in a war neither can win. the ransom her will. paid in full. quite worthless.

the strays. the feral orphans of battle. dress and humility stipulated. the weather. the blizzards. outside and within. parallel. a cold world. ripe with ends.

simple gods flaunt their menial effects. love, hope and happines. and other such dismal miracles. impotent saviors. bleed their worth. in enduring fictions.