Dragging the back of a hammer
across the rotting boards that
make up an old raised bed, and
the sharp corners tear into his skin.
Everything looked so much darker
in the overcast and the blood reflected
daylight like a mirror.
Nothing gets away from here
only molting in the stillness,
they are crayfish in the stream.
Underlining thought patterns with
frontal cortex highlighters in attempts
to keep tomorrow like today.
Not everyone can have their way,
and we’ve spent long enough dwelling
on the old dilemmas.
Talking loudly and with false confidence
while spitting out our food.
We never really had it chewed.
The only thing we left out
was the ending.
Left Out
Teleporting Typewriter 