bend the arrow. twist the mountain. there is still perspective to be extracted from empty wells. a thick vein. ripe of poison. high enough to understand how low it was. a heavy rope. frayed close to breaking. still ample to lift what little remains.
the future. the past. both salesmen. of expired loves. and earnest strangers.
we spun. pivoting on the needle. as time wove its stories. flesh stretched and folded. to accommodate the deepening abyss.
the turn eclipsed our path. miles unraveled. choices swallowed us. the distance within collapsed. and we found ourselves struggling to differentiate the beginning from the end.
turn the paper. crease the edge. at war with the choices that had created us.our shadows long against the summer sun. our fever peaking as we pushed forward in that vacant race.
the silence says enough. the words leave us heavier than we were. bones stumble over their skin. collecting moments in torn paper and empty choices.
the rain groans over the glass. desperate to drown us. the wind stabs at our walls. determined to deliver the cold .