Those times we kissed
such scars we hoped
would fade before
our lives had to depart
towards inevitability.
Death doesn’t answer
anything but its own,
achieving the same result
on a constant stream.
A perpetual toll
that turns futures
onto the brazen
impact of sequence.
It all happens
for the reason
we want to deny.
Our spirits
are kept in a bottle,
ready to spill.
What good
does running do,
when we will trip,
landing in the flood
of blood where we walk?
Leave a Reply