untitledbroken dust, the epitome of souls asthick as their past--sin corroding their faces and lacing the hands of time with epidemics. deep down, below skin, the stirring of bells: trauma, cease-fire, breath no longer needed, bombs like an early armageddon. this world is not ready, not even for words. fire must be ink before it is fire. death must be on paper before it is flesh. life is not ready to stop, but it does. it leaks out of skin and bone and hands and it slips away like sleep, abandons hope and ships and dreams like water or sunlight falling like drops too thin to quench the thirst of winter. [back] |