Broken Bones

Space travelling through us. Time weighed by the density of ghosts. An infinite yardstick against a minute supposition. the vanity of reality is in the clues we assign to its proof. I think. I feel. I want. parables of morality spun on spiders' webs. a stick up the pussy of justice. Aborting her only child.

Time. Promising nothing. Expecting so much. Faces. Hands. Lips. Random atoms crashing. As they ricochet off these walls we've erected. And in between. That overwhelming distance. More time. More counting what cannot be measured.

More space. Flattening this excited skin. The mass of lost atoms losing their momentum. Close enough to heaven to know. That hell is the same.

Arrogant scientists shuffle the hours like a deck of cards. Time and space. Pound the drum. We march on. These monkeys becoming gods. Strangling lonely songs from the neck of a broken instrument. Time measures us. With sticks on stones.

A brutal apostle and its bloody student.