Dead Things

It wasn't soon enough, but I tried to pretend there still were. Tall candles in those hollow pumpkins. Yellow eyes not blinking as the world comes to an end.

The girl tried on her costume. In rippling beige tragedies. Her mask bleeding from all angles. Her cape too close to the hangmen. She drew her bullets in crayon. Her blades in pencil. She argued with time for merely the practice.

Super heroes in torn tights. Selling their capes for biscuits and cornbread.

It doesn't make sense at all unless you turn off the lights. Fall asleep eyes still open to the choke of the train. As it shuffles passengers. Away from. And closer.

To nowhere.

Time arrives in its stalwart pantomime. Feeble gestures. Corrupt the silence. With loud gods. The words suffer. The years fetch. Hollow dolls. To justify. All the dead things. That are conjured up.