bits of glass. torn pages. all the rich betrayals of thought and circumstance.
the journey is brief. the distance is endless.
the clouds were stubborn. as was she. shuffling her burnt bridges. Dealing what was left.
doused in her panic of sober. all arrows and hatchets.
she went too far. she always did. such is the nature of surrender. it's full of crooked ladders, broken time machines and lazy heroes.
she whispered to winter. it shouted back.
she thought she knew. had practised the arithmetic. it was supposed to be simple. the dark. the cold. the severe autism of want.
in many ways it was simple.
temporary thieves in their seldom epiphanies. and the cold remainders of their indifference.
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