Future's Empty Fist

cracks in the world. paper cuts in the darkness. we don't go very far at all. it's the depths that takes us. frayed puppets hysterically searching for which strings are the ones that will make us dance.

soft corners. pliant bridges. a series of grays. all our perspective lies in the distance. the view from the top of the mountain is quite similar to the one at the bottom. in either place, everything is small. and too far away to grab.

warm hands. cold fingers.

thoughts like bullets. or at least as loud. an anarchy of choices. the constant treason of touch. dull needles. twisted thread. overcome by the holes they had meant to repair. a good hurt. if you can stand it.

the obvious archetypes of beginning and end reluctantly confess. the journey is but a single stab in a long series of cuts. 

warm hands. touch.

the silence roars. a feral beast. the flame manipulates the void. a chisel. shaving away the meat of the dilemma.

the calendar concedes. pressing paper skins.

a new year. laden with old choices.

a simple atonement.