Rush Hour

What is the cycle of breath in a machine?

On. Off. In. Out.

We are tipping over the edge of a conference call.

I could call you down the mountain.  I could catch you on the edge.  I could carry you back to the beginning and hurt all over again.  

I will pick a place, a flower, a piece of power and name it kind.  I am searching for the kindness oozing through the cracks of the sidewalk, the edges of my vision, the misty leaves whirring in circles down the street.

All who loved me have had a taste of my bleeding heart, a taste of life pouring out of me.

What is left? 

How long can I pretend to be human, when I know I’m made of blood only.

There is no scaffolding here, just liquid ooze. 

A Bag of fluids ready to pop at any moment.

Pop and explode and pour down the drains. 

I’m constantly decaying to my baser parts.

The sun calls me up and the blood bears me down.

I float somewhere between the two, an afterimage of my shadow slowly misting away with my ghosts.


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