Gods in their Nightgowns.

the uknown finds its angles. dying flames shake their fist at the moon. the stranger. trembling lightning. soft, cracked stairs stop short of the stars. her eyes say now. her heart says then. and somewhere inbetween reality imagines us. as if we might be real. in some frail fantasy. that childhood long ago surrendered. we are what it makes of us. jagged puzzle pieces fumbling with the memory of a broken image.

the tunnels find their way through her flesh. little lies and small confessions. enough to survive. such as survival is. just bones. drowning in the penetrating want of skin. furious and stubborn.

little bends. creases in the linear. time gives chase. a rabid dog with worn out fangs. bites, but draws no blood. just the feeling that we're closer. an assault of angles. bending us.

touch compels, the woman is. but never was. wolves and piglets. chasing the sun. with needles in their fists. and numbers on their nooses. the dead stay dead. no matter how much breath we waste on corpses.

she sleeps like everything is gone. it probably is. what was ever there. a bald illusion. the weigh of how. sober fists. the end in drizzles. no storms. just clouds. the grey more than friend enough.

these borrowed lives slowly spending us.