The Dangers of Casual Butterflies

pliant gods name their price. in sweat and sickness. this thinning disease we call life trundles forward. a bright bouquet of so many dead flowers.

the taste of possibility. sour, sweet and sharp. pushes its way deeper. the obvious ritual of submission stalls at the finish.

words broken. in strokes of skin. stony soldiers of when. the puzzle could still be solved. remnants. fetid atoms do their math. on the fragments of us. beautiful thieves in a world ripe with want.

the pleasing torment of how. draws its stitches through the hardened blood. wounds never heal. they just fall silent. waiting to be awoken.

the rain bends. pursuing gravity's feithses.  in ticks of skin. all lit up by the halogen of apathy. the world ends where I want it to. moments. chokes of discovery. solve the riddle of us. simple sketches awash in the fever and the overlap. of choices and surrender.

pencil marks thunder. stories confess. there is no end to the world. just pauses. as loud as they can manage. the tilting clock. the granite conditions. soft shades on the window gradually let the sun in.

a quiet parade. through a tunnel of screams. a cheap purchase. tomorrow's nickels and dimes making us rich.

the knowing refuses us. the anthem can only whisper. finding the edge betrays. in that tart licorice sober.

the bitter has its place. in sweetening what we are left with. 

paper cuts and delicate monsters.at war with the world.