what do we really know for certain beyond our last breath exhaled? how can we truly know we're real until someone else offers proof?
the end of the world is always close. gnawing at the periphery of our vision.
we say the words. striking that flame.
still it has nowhere to burn.
the taste of tomorrow lingers on our tongue. a sour syrup laced with the yesterday's stale saccharine.
the corners sharpen. the shadows thicken. we'd see where we are if our eyes would only open.
memories leave their stains upon the ragged maps we follow. they are detours. not destinations.
our thoughts idle. engines with nowhere left to go. our flesh chafes. a journey that takes us nowhere.
all the while, there's the thief inside us. always ready to take what is needed.
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