The tear running down my wrist,

gray prisms of mascara reflecting,

(the only beauty ever revealed to it).


The misery,

no, not beautiful.

It never is.

The romance of it is a myth.

Like the truths

promised by charcoal,

they burn towards the standing

of brittle remnants,

of forgotten empires,

and the feather headdress.

It is visceral, but exists

no, not warlike

nor hesitant. Unlike

the destined pitfalls,

the marriages. They are conscious.

Time represents them,

More arduous knowledge.

It is submerged perpetually,

we are,

this is,

the submission mothers the brutality.


It is dumb like me,

I only memorize. The parrot

of history.

My mind holds no glory in functioning.

It occurs in plates

that shatter and quake.

They ululate all the while.


Plotting her

facts on maps, looming like towers

on the once flat land. Eyes incandescent like greased stepping stones,

they ascend towards the moon like humans,

while they make their


to slavery, forgetting the mathematics

of intelligence.

The submission is the twofold path

of misery, god, and godliness.