A Cure For Improvement

there are certain stones
that bleed.
no matter how solid,
with enough pressure
they seep their weakness;
because there is a violence
to the harsh winds of curiosity
that refuses derailment,
that latches without touch,
that slices without sight.

in a current charged with confusion,
there is an immense desire
to splinter that
which is strong,
to bear witness
to the fractured beauty
of vulnerability.

to break down
what has been built up
and branched out
is a fascinating itch.
and a scratch is not
enough of a sedative.
to catalyse such a collapse,
something trickling won't do.
We need a stream.

We crave a torrent.

the layered veils of mystery
feigning titanium
were once fringed
with unfettered trickery:
but now the unforgiving soak
of our beckoning low
tears down
and ragefully ravages
any signs of ascendance.
and all that is left
is a trepidation
and a nakedness
that ought to spark sympathy,
but rather boils to surface
a shameful elation.

there is nothing sweeter
and nothing more disgusting
than the digging into the defects
of humanity, tapping into the carnality,
and the dragging of zeniths
into that desperate descent,
to rot along with the rest of us.

Entropy is a hunter,
and He will always find perfection
and trap perfection
and kill perfection
and gut perfection
and serve perfection
to us on a familiar platter
as a loathsome comfort,
a bare and unbearable reminder
that there is no such thing as better,
there's only breathing
and bleeding
and ripped apart raw revealing.

the longer stones sit still,
the easier it is to detect that crack,
and to christen it into a chasm.
We will wait for that satiating slip,
that sliver of a slit,
and We will penetrate it
and wear it until it wears away,
until it is as faded and frail,
as used and useless,
as the rest of us Bitter Creatures.
If We are flawed,
if We can fail,
then so must the rest of us
sink to our depths,
and drown with us

in the torrents of our tears.