An Ambulance Racer

An ambulance races an avalanche (makeshift at best, but – both speeders of death). You are still like a cold in my chest; I am still as hopelessly messed up on dreams of quick schemes for rich things. This caged bird don’t sing – it just lies where it lays off-centered, upstaged; it rhymes with a line I forgot that I made.

An ambulance chases a smashed-in, made-up princess’s death with a mason jar to catch the breath that marks her end of time: the thing before the nothing after. To suggest that it could rhyme at all would clearly mean disaster. She moves faster than a meteor shower – a borrowed reminder that everything sours and spoils if left out too long on the table. She’ll choose her last words while her fractured mind’s able to think of the things that she’s leaving this evening.


~ by perfectionatrix on April 22, 2011.

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