Tsars in the Corner

Her extremities. Soiling her grasp. Nervous hexagons in the throat of the monster. Spoiling their stories in a maze of broken glass. Trying on. Trying near. The cold trench coat the stairwell wears. As her footsteps lead her down. Through the parrots and the ogres. Basket in hand. She still searches. For those hungry wolves.

The map. In vague differentials. The path in welts on her skin. She struggles with the translation. While the sounds of words gracelessly filter through the holes in her lips.

Reality diverges. As she sips her coffee over the remainder. Time takes its first steps. Then falls over. As she watches.

The map in her veins beginning to show. As she distracts herself with broken pencils. Nothing to say. Just heaps of empty paper. Demanding to know.