Slaughterhouse Rules

gravity forgets us. once we've fallen too far.
a series of small cuts in time's wizened wrist.

serve as our map. as we navigate this expiring flesh.

we push closer to the center.
fragile monsters slouching on their crumbling horns.

choke on the ugly choices that have stranded them.

the distance pauses.
a slender rope suspending a weighted bridge.

we run. our feet made of dust and clay.

toward what we know not.
except away from where we are.

turning on the fickle parable of touch.
dutifully committed to love's brutal abattoir.