initial velocity...
feathers are landing on my desk from their long flight. flightpath empty. projectile arc...
and fiction was fact in poetry. the lines cross eachother at perfect angles in perfect triangles, hexagons...lines to cross again in the past in reflection we cross and rejoin the enemy...so hard to see between. so hard to walk along the path...or to let it fade.
nothing is here to hear where i am deaf to these voices screaming in my brain at the lowest whisper nobody else can comprehend...
to see the facts was to be blind to reality. and reality was an enigma of forsight...and for us, we saw the walls and not the room.
the room held itself in dimensions of space and time where seconds were minute. i sit here and seconds are the hours i am wasting each day in myself. i found that new dimension and i found it in this cage. this rib cage.
i broke my ribs and died.
i'm still alive but not in spirit. the china is broken and the glass is putting itself back together on the floor. the shards and the splinters dance in the light and float in my eyes from the bottom to the top and the circles they form in the crystal air are immaculate...they spin and i spin and I'm spinning and the room is gone and i am a piece of glass on the floor...after all...
i'm kidding, but i'm only serious. it's true even if it didn't actually happen. reality skewed itself through narrative. i'll let the opinions slip through the hole in my head. they come out the back looking scratched and red.
if i let myself escape, i'll fall.
i'll fall like a stone.
i'll shoot out of the cannon in the show and they'll see me make an arc in the air and the parabolic flightpath ends when i hit the ground again.
unless i hit the ground and miss.
Psychotic
Devious Comments