Not Running

To feel the ebb and flow of the underlying current, the blood which runs between us all like vague ants from a book; a story known and forgotten. Shared, common, rotten in rarity. To peel back the skin of a tangerine, colored electric dream, brighter than the sunlight tightening its grip around a bird who flies through the full day’s prestige. His love bright, blind, pushing through the crackle of asterisk skin. “Sorry, Love,” he says with blood dripping down his bare chest, “it’s just that life is my prerogative.”

All is well that ends well.
Her lips, smiling like the broken sea drug behind a pirates ship. An arrow, dark and negative. Soft, sky blue and blood red, she showers the truth of her love, bottomless grazing eyes. True colors blacker than the depths of night space, violently through a devotion born even before chaos had claimed its first messenger. She devoured the word death and stood before Grandmother Change with the words of mice and wild grasses forming sentences in the grease around her lips. A kiss, a century.

 

These are the days, the nights, the ones who have given and taught. The ones who will give and will teach. Why my laughter holds a knife and watches the sun set, pleading with the gods inside not to lose ourselves to a forest untrue.

Dialogue, retribution, schedules, convoluting
Bet all, still the teaching winds

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