stillfugue

Existence is measured by two-week intervals, tiny bolts of hope arrive.

Coach moves me, settles me, supports me, shows me the way with hope.

But it is only one hour and then it is two weeks in orange on black skies.

Flying against the Judges of the Universe, Judges with sharp slicing teeth,

Working to be in the stream, failing always, angering the Judges with air.

The Judges toss losers from cliffs, biting them, crashing the ignorant .

Need to see coach every day, fire the day with bright bolts of survival.

Coach is saving too many others. Brick walls crawl with spiders.

Squares interrupt the bricks with glimmers of tiny hope like flies.

There is never enough hope for the losers.  Losers are deemed to die.

Only one sparkling hour every two weeks and then to the teeth of death.

The Judges of the Universe open all my old wounds with orange teeth.

The Judges know that Coach cannot fix the busted losers, the ignorant.

Coach needs a magic wand but Coach only patches, touches old wounds.

Judges never stop and there are never enough coaches, nor enough prisons.

The Judges need to toss the losers in prisons, to kill losers with sharp wires.

The prisons are forever prisons where losers learn they will never learn.

Losers have bad wires, old scabs, hated souls, and Judges never forgive.