Cardboard Statues In The Rain

It's the truth. Albeit a disputed one.

Long branches twist the sunlight into knots. All we get are punches. Glass doors wearing people like condoms. Revolving until everything is said without a sound.

It's a lie. These pieces of skin on my plate looking like people looking for names I can't remember. Watches not keeping time. Not our time together. Or apart. The anguish of the universe. That it can't subtract. It must keep expanding until we are all alone.

Time digests and expels us. We nourish it. We make it sick. Until our disease is its only sustenance. Our only desire is to live. Our only purpose is to die.

Vomiting up each other in perfect meter, but flawed rhyme. Adding to these heavy skins.

I dreamed my cactus died. The pot fell over. A sneeze of dirt and ceramic opened up its concealed grave. It had no roots at all. No life inside it.

But it's falling revealed a discovery. Underneath it another. Bigger. Greener. Sharper still.

Always on the surface the dead thing.

Underneath it.

Life.

Cardboard statues in the rain.

It's a lie. That's true, but it's a truthful one.