Overshooting the Fable

Some lies tell themselves. The pelt awaits bone. Dead is a familiar chamber. In a series of rooms. The sequence begs the catalyst. We are nothing until combined. The cellar arranges its monsters. In order of fear.

Refusing the numbers she convexes the root. Turning the cage upon itself. And all those hours tumble down. In absent raindrops. That never reach the ground. Transparent martyrs tugging on the strings of stoned gods.

She could. Trick the machine. Give it the wrong coordinates. But why bother she spits. There's nothing out there i haven't already lost. She could bargain with the darkness. Humble time with her dead bulb.

The future is a vacuum. Like all this space around us. Nothing enters. Nothing exits. Pigs praying their brick houses won't fail them. As the wolf exhales.