Seven Dwarfs

Colors. Corrosive. Skin digesting the moods. Of mediocre lovers. The sugar hard. On decaying affections.

I am not a tick on timeline. Scoffing at the futility of touch. While I suck in my gut to squeeze myself into its rigid form. Minutes. speculating on the children they neglect. Hours. In crass reform. Pigs become bacon. People corpses. Food for maggots.

Years. Time is a clown. Face painted. Too many of it jumping out of a car that couldn't possibly fit them all. Life is a circus. Bored animals. Men with whips. And acrobats without a net.

The fickle treadmill. His look travels my skin. Anxious. Indifferent. I'm a magazine. To glance during a long shit. So many miles expended to get back to the start. See the finish forming the other sides. Pull the puppets from our hands. Just fingers. Pointing. At nothing in particular.

The obvious. That's what revelation is. Horrendous songs to listen to again and again. That's what epiphanies are destined to become. Awful truths. As the tortoise inches ever closer to winning.

The hare is still sure he's ahead.

There's the moral for your story. It often taste like victory, but it's usually just sex.