Hope Triumphant

Karma burns on stove top lit in the back of a decaying toy box that houses our deep seeded fears in full bloom. 

Cosmic voodoo, superstition that isn't all that super clogs the toilets that irrigate all limitations of the dynamic of traditional techniques as we pass them by watching the full culmination of black tar heroines drink from the rain gutters in late March.

Hopeful addicts face down in the hallways as we pass them by wondering why the piss and vinegar they used to drink now passes down their peeling backs like April showers. As far as we can see there will be no May flowers, and banisters dusted like a crime scene cold as the days.

Further from forever the contention we sought still sour as the milk sitting in the deep end of the sink metal like our expressions as we gather this old suitcase and hurl it into the abyss of the noontime day. 

Windows shatter like bones against the grain snapping at the first sign of work related stress, shimmering then out of frame. 

The hoods we gathered now stick like shadows revealing that we once cared too much, but now use an Oxford comma like it's our identity going out business one week then moving to Maine. 

Flushing this soup of past lives passed on by down the drain we watch as our holy detox dilutes first piss, then vinegar, then the shame we carried all the way up here only to plunge it face first into the pit of hypocognition. 

The ignition starts as the house begins to shrink as we sit here flushing the last of the drink moving at light speed that leaves us stripped of all responsibility.

In days bright we take flight knowing that we have been freed from the coup, and masks rip, and we shoot out into truly endless days.