Blind Prophets

The pendulum in her eyes. The hours becoming more than a feast. The claws of the kitten. Finding our skin. Fragile cuts answer the ghosts. As we watch the bubble. Time caught. Between then and now. Stale and willing to surrender. To the choices that we make.

It's not cold in here. It's just me. The winter shouts. The summer whispers.

One small parachute. In the radiance we accuse. Of being a villain. Time is not a monster. It always lets us decide. Be it by broken switches in this foul flesh. Or the echo of empty glass as I take that last sip.

Time is only the punctuation in all the things I'm afraid to do. Stout stop signs on bleak highways. No rooms in those empty inns. I

I didn't build the button, but I understand it. We're not anywhere at all. Until someone finds us.

And there's no one looking.