The Silent War

time is a dull blade. it tears rather than cuts. hope is a clay staircase. it swallows more than it lifts. 

we're thieves in each other's skins. we're all Oedipus in a sum of diminishing fables. 

the glass breaks on the window of anticipation. we ignore the blood. at long last we can see inside. 

skin struggles against the pull of choice. promises are stretched taut. we chase the match. as if the flame hasn't always belonged to us. 

the torn pages. the ripe fruit. a tableau of empty epiphanies stalled inside the fever of want. 

reality bites down hard. its fangs sharp.

the stage opens to a chorus of  open wounds. 

the audience applauds. as gravity chokes on our corpses.