Meta Melancholy

the thief is always arguing with the machine. since distance is often measured in what's missing. the pilot never counts. though years are at stake. because time is not ours to own.

the steps go down, the same as they go up. the difference is the doorway.

the engine idles under her skin. a mechanical dragon of grinding gears and chomping pistons. the hour forfeits. beholden to the architecture of gravity.

all those invisible weights that would keep us in the dirt.

arrogrant crows mock the wind. emboldened by their beaks and feathers. flight follows strangers  to the edge. with soft tipped swords that prefer words over blood. the animals. in each of them a piece of humanity. or the shadow that remains of it.

the sky bleeds white. the ground chokes on each footstep.

slender needles boast the thread of monsters and champions. stitching together the frays of winters as the cold stubbornly persists. there are no names. nor reasons fetched from the barren ridge. just heavy cloaks absent faces and the heavy eyes that would soon forget.


these bodies are only a careless gamble.

we know not where we travel. the map buried far too deep. we only know that we must go there.