Lovely Plagues

a crease in the page. a footprint in her head. dusty maps to long spent treasures. time doesn't have a face. it's eyes are in its back. time doesn't walk or run. it simply finds the edge and jumps.

worn by the dark. or wearing it. a foot stool on the lips of reason. as it chokes on the carcass of choice.  minute lines in the glass spreading slowly toward the margin. stutters in the structure of life erupting in silence and madness.

the smell of tomorrow burnt and tempting like gutted fish. the hunger tree obese with low hanging fruit.

yesterday. the taste of its fever. warm on her lips.

the comfort of sickness. available in all directions.

dead things murmur on the fringes of touch. cold thighs form frozen bridges. empty travelers linger in the void. content to find themselves lost.