laying in a pile of pine needles, more a bed of nails, like a thousand wriggling cockroach legs against an uneager spine, working through fibers and finding pale flesh pockmarked by old love and sickness

the ground is damp from fallen rains and cold with the promise of winter, all deciduous nudity and frank truth exposed to vociferous winds howling from the throat of the world in booming, echoing loss of innocence and feverish pain

time grows fractured the closer to tragedy, sending waves of uncertain dismissal and thrombosis in susceptible life forms, granulated images of the before forever tinted by now and whithered in the tomorrow of aching misanthropic chants

rusted spikes in the unfertile nail beds of degloved fingers, sinuous caricatures of function over form, the skies part and solar radiation pulsates and permeates, of tumeric and tumors dancing across ulna junctions of the brachial nerve cluster of interstellar dissidence

the hand of god with five phallic candles burning ever down, wax running in globular formation, tunneling deeper into carpal relapse, rigid and unseemly in the flickering light of dark matters of the heart, arrested cardiacally, reanimated by fishing line strung by the architects of creation themselves for morbid viewing pleasure

she stares unseeing out the window as the first fat flakes fall against the pane of glass, an empty glass sits next to her trembling fingers, her phone flashes from unread messages, a lone tear travels down her lovely cheek, skating down sharp cheekbones carved of porcelain

he loved the snow, and sitting next to her reading chaucer and milton while the logs crackled in the fireplace, sending small fiery little sparks up the flue, he said they were the errant thoughts and unvocalized wishes finding their way out into the world, she would listen to his strong voice as woodsmoke filled her nostrils and wishes sought escape

effervescent ideaologies at odds with final solutionary tactics war within her mind

the pharmaceutical cocktail pumping through her veins

the philosophical quandary flooding through her mind

desperate passionless discourse in dopamine suppressive languish

thunder crashes and lightning flashes and she knows not if it is real or just synapses and spaces in her mind