Petulant Ghosts

sour spindles on memory's decrepit time machine. leave us counting the decimals in our fists.

the world doesn't seem so small when you're standing on its edge. All fireflies and screwdrivers. As the light bulbs choke. on the remains of our hunger. 

we run. driven by instinct and biology. lonely pistons churning inside a vast machine. going places. always going places we've already been. devouring the miles as they feast on our flesh. 

the hours swim. drowning in the minutes. the road chokes on our progress.hunting for an intersection. or any kind of choice.

the distance is loud. the map is deaf. as the end inserts its syringe. and we welcome the poison.