Snapshots

Biographies in blue. Suffocate the skin. Reaching for that absent feeling. Of frozen soil and cold wind. Butchers cutting up the dead things we will eat.

The mania conform to patterns in the numbers. The flesh absolves to the level of the rising ocean. Dizzy Dorothy's taunt the lion. Tin Men play the martyr. While the wizard watches from behind his cloak. Stiff with dungeons still unopened.

Circumstance seems more an alien than time. Its weak abundance. Merely a distraction. There's so much still to do. And I've barely begun.

There are picture to be drawn. But my pencil always breaks. There is skin to touch. And there are drugs to do. And lies to tell. And I would. If there was anyone left to believe them.

She enters the darkroom. Film in hand. She trusts.

That there is no exit.