#32

Out of focus, the leaves shine their green. Humble. Each bird for bread. And the streets through different routes to the written places. We were limping towards the old arrangements. Paused in parks devoid of nature. No more answers to those questions, please. No more will, roaring like a forest-fire. Time passes, so we let it. Each race deserves its prize. And each memory a smear of blood on canvas.

Everyone remain seated. These are not your thoughts in hiding. Ariadne's thread for stitches, lip to lip. Dollar for dollar. The wedding room filled with cripples, quiet as a game of chess. And the days spent in hallways denuded by circumstance. Fasten your doors. See that child orphaned to a concrete tomb? He is separated from his genius. It's been shaking hands with thieves.