in the yoke
The harvester of hearts is fresh out of fear. All we have left now is the natural decay of flesh fruit that sags like frozen molasses. Vultures circle the nearby ruins with vicious claws and mysterious bruises. Unrecognizable logic severs heads in front of faces optimistic and vague. The glowing tears that eclipse my pupils are merely illusions of happiness. I’d love to sit and watch you take the money and run, but Mahjong millionaires throw the weak into the dark. We’re all fighting for a lost cause because hope is a dead language. While the sun promises that might of tomorrow my heart beats in the clouds.