Temporary Poets in Permanent Skin

she spends her nights arguing with dead men. her days reinventing simple things. the stab of raindrops. the vacancy of conversation. the soft mortar that negotiates the gaps between heavy bricks.

it's only ugly if you look at it directly. from the edge it's almost beautiful. the choke of time. as it chews on the cracks in already broken skin. a necessary parasite. a curious machine. relentlessly driven to determine the distance that separates words and voices.

her paper flowers wilt the same as all the rest. her plastic armies die just as easily.

the numbers fuss. the engine whinges. the science of god is embedded deep in the bowels of men.

she caresses the predators with a heavy fist. chasing the last moments in a blind fury of rebellion. forgetting how young she once was. knowing how old it is. navigating the darkness by sparks and eddies.

the failing ambitions of disgraced ghosts. there is only one lonely freedom.  there is nothing in the world so wonderous as lost hope. the edge of the cliff exploding. in a panic of discovering. the moment had other plans.