if you put a rag in the bottle, we'd be rebels ~

the world  
is still round  
though stones have  
turned to sand  
in the crush  
[to dust  
or something  
of the sort]  
long before  
so very long ago  
when one could  
scent kairos  
on the breeze ...
... tired bones  
are still bones  
& i pick them  
clean  
as i would  
any other  
[over it again  
over again  
& again]  
falling  
*  
could i pull  
another pin  
& scorch the earth,  
i'd stand in  
your hellfire  
burning  
being born  
blue skinned...
... all tales start  
the same way  
in  
somebody's time
[still & always]  
when we are
nothing  
but trace  
in the wake of  
minute hand massacres
the world  
will still be round  
//