The Weight of Gravity

her walking dead. her lost soldiers with their bullets in their pockets. frequent the road less travelled. measure the cuts in loose skin. as they chase the disease.

there is no war. only a series of battles. a truth that burrows deeper than blood or scars. the absence of  reason. the flood of indifference. as these walls betray their mortar.

a terse division of skin. purchases each tomorrow with a growing debt. she remembers when the world first ended. it was only a few days from now. it was beautiful if you let it.

the numbers swell. the matches burn. the fingers that hold onto them. the stubborn flame resists the impending darkness. without reason.

we dance on the edge of when. certain it dances with us. long after the music has stopped.

assembling the dolls. lips. skin. tits. lost in the sum of the parts. weak monsters solving for how. the friction of the dead. like stubborn mazes.

the words of strangers. the lure of touch. in all of its lusty abberations. the beauty of want. as it makes us stronger. convincing the crippled that they might yet walk.

until we finally discover. that we are content to crawl.