Looking out at the sanguine wasteland

from our rocky (crumbling) thrones

We think of how the blood spilled here

dried without any tears shed

and then was crushed into dust

by the very same thing that crushed dreams,

R e a l i t y.

Stomachs rumble, we starve because

They don't care

about the other percentage.

Eyes dry, too dry, we can't cry anymore because

They don't care

about the dead either.

Vultures, those nasty little things, looking bigger now.

Circling overhead, want to ravage our bodies.

Haha, we say and laugh as we can,

We're not dead yet.

But we think again and maybe, just maybe,

we are dead but

our brains just don't know it.

Look at each other, look up.

Wanna do it?

Your eyes say.

I'm dying.

Your lips move but I hear these words from the land around us.

I nod.

We lock hands.


Palms scrape against each other like sandpaper against wood, see the little bits flying off? They're dry, flaky, sunburned.


They make themselves part of our sandcastle thrones.

We do not fall, we do not jump.

We do not leap, and we most certainly do not throw ourselves over.

We crawl to the edge like the animals we are (were) inside.

No prayers.

You insist when I try to clasp my hands together.

God's inbox must be full already.

We simply walk until there's nothing, not even air, underneath our feet anymore.

I sigh.