time's tired apostles crawl into their soiled beds.

ragged souvenirs in an ongoing apocalypse.

the edge of the world always there in their throats.

as they chew on the sun.

gossamer skin in the whisper of a bruise.

the years pace in their sunken cages.

a broken animal.

we wear the distance. in brutal numbers.

letting the math choke on us.

the truth is a corrosive.

a barking stage full of tangled puppets.

we say it's enough.

because we wish it was.

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. 

little spiders in their seldom webs. wait patiently for visitors.

lazy clouds tease the sun. having already spent all their best storms.

the hunt is often passive. no obvious aggression. still just as effective.

the decimal moves. depending on our aim.

little numbers crawl under our skin. deciding who we will become.

we curate our equations. distorted by perception.

distance is betrayed by speed. anxious atoms collide in a spectacular delusion.

the little spider collects her victims. 

and her web is empty again. 

there are no ceilings in the lies that we tell.

we drown under the infinite capacity of flesh.

cartoon martyrs in crayon tomes. 


there are no floors under our feet. 

just the din of perpetuity gripping our throats. 


the truth is immense.

a tangled fracture of oblivion. 

in a room without windows.


we play.

and are played with.

toys without rules. 


time bites down hard. 

devouring our fragile smiles.


we chase the distance. 

tempted by its generous frowns. 


we bargain with the abyss. 

because we know,

that gravity always wins. 

the  distance yawned.
as we collected its rope. 

the silence tied its knots.
and we scoffed at the noose. 

the edge knew us too well.
in the foul way that only desperation does. 

there were monsters under our bed.
more scared of us than we were of them. 

the truth licked its lips.
while we cut out its tongue.

we were poison to each other.
but instead of killing us,
it only made us immune. 

time smothered us in new flesh,  
but underneath,
those old wounds still persist.

the broken shelf said nothing new. spun by the slender scratches in gravity's smile. 

worn by the edges. undressed by the distance. 

we chased the corners. charmed by time's delicate lies. 

the jagged road content to listen. as we shouted at the stones. 

we were simple thieves. with soft guns. frantically bargaining with shame's auditors 

for one more chance to prove. that in spite of everything we'd lost. we still had something left to lose. 

the dirty walls were ample consent. as the world tumbled in. 

touch the tortoise. consequence the hare. 

the dead were restless as we leaned into the curve. 

the remaining light burned her hand. as she began to count the empty rooms. 

no names by which to call them. in the infinite conflagration of time.
all told. the damage is the least of our devastation.

the numbers frantically fumble to keep count. as the fissures continuously erupt in our math.
bits of skin in all the wrong places. tease the lingering intersections.

no familiar faces to wear their skeletons. as choice chokes on the last of its wagers.
the simplest truths answer the hardest questions.

the luxury of touch is an impossible expense. now that all our words have expired. 
silence drives its wedges under our tongues. 

no soiled sheets upon which to cultivate our shame. all severed limbs discarded. 
all broken dolls tucked into their beds. 

the apothecary of deceit a familiar stranger. as time betrays the remains of our metaphors. 

no more temporary villains in generous couches. some monsters are permanent. 

the window sighed. resolute against the scrape of the world. 

change stutters. a long series of cordial villains.

each one counting the dust accumulating on her doorstep. 

as if to prove what had never been true. 

the silence buzzed. all wings and acid. 

letting us know that we'd been stung. 

the box was quite small. though its contents were immense. 

we'd stopped counting a long time ago. 

but what was inside never did. 

the crocodile in his tuxedo appears quite handsome. as he polishes his teeth. 

the fruit on the vine is plump as the worm burrows into it. 

time just watches. a passive god. both curious and dismissive. 

a tree falls. the silence hears it. but it's broken just the same. 

we move through each other. maruaders on sinking ships. 

the lion grins as the tall grass conceals her.

knowing the hunt is more subtle than her claws. 

the distance swallows our footsteps. as we trudge through the sand. 

time gives chase. a rigorous accountant. 

as we accumulate our debts. 

the moon chokes in its cradle. 
the light surrenders the last of its defiance. 

now we are the flesh that's left on their bones. 
after all their graves have been finalized. 

the dead have their voices.
in the corners of our skin. 

long after their faces have been worn away. 
their stones still rattle in our chests. 

confounded by the animal within. 
our words tear at the paper. 

the world is a curious contraption.
that runs on blood and sweat.

its function wholly dependent
upon blind obedience. 

the buttons are soft on time's weary keyboard.

all our dogged epiphanies summarily dismissed.

no more wilted adjectives to give us pause.

the chains are limp on truth's withered engine.

as we barrel forward. blindfolded and adamant.

the last of our claws sold to the sheep.

trust is a vile consent. built on borrowed beginnings.

we spend our choices on temporary things.

because temporary is what we've always been. 

the hours stumble over the remains of our thoughts. 

no more nervous adjectives to tangle our breath. 


the narrative chokes on its fading protagonists. 

the end switftly asserts itself. 


time is an infinite passageway. 

teeming with open doors. 


i aksed her name as she stroked the sharpest corner. 

she polished the edge as its razors ripened. 


we screamed at gravity. 

as the world came tumbling down. 

 the coin was loud as it shimmied to its inevitable halt. finally flat against the tilted table at which we anxiously sat.

still we kept counting. expecting more to fall. 

eventually, we abandoned the precarious whims of arithmetic. determiend to discover a more generous defeat. 

bargaining with the edge. our faces plastered to the wind. while gravity undid its zippers. 

the end stout and fickle. as it spent our dwindling choices. 

the window was soft and unsure. full of faces and shame. 

and all the obvious confessions. 

time is a weak menace. all faded make-up and failed parodies. 

we've been thieves for so long that there's nothing left to steal.