By Patrick La Roque
I sit on a beach thousands of miles from home. I hear waves and their undying flux, like claws of the eternal, grinding. I hear id and ego battling it out, the persona emerging...you are the loner it says, you are content. No. The truth is, I die a small death without the presence of others.
I am not the fortress I once thought I was.
If they let us linger, we steal atoms from those around us. We ingest particles through osmosis, feeding on thoughts and energy and light. And when darkness falls we consume it whole as well.
Soft-spoken vampires
eyes and ears and teeth to the ready
yet giving as we take.
I am not the fortress I once thought I was.
I could fly to the ends of the earth but nothing would ever fill me the way you do. And so I rush the rush of mad machine horses, legs pumping in a cloud of blistering steam. I tear at the sky and asphalt with my mouth, pull them apart until this void is closed and distant.
I am not the fortress I once thought I was.
