Inertial Frames

louder still the distance screams.
the ugly inferno of our voices ignites.

we continue to worship the horizon.
though it only tells us lies.

we gnaw on the edge.
all its sour colors an irresistible drug.

we sit in our machines. 
listening to their choking engines.

convinced they can be still repaired.
flirting with time. a poisoned romance.

melted crayons in our pockets.
knotted colors in our heads.

shouting at the outlines
we're unable to fill in.

the angles oblique.
as we approach the center.

a catastrophe of skin.
nothing left to feel.

except what is missing.