Blue shoes;
pounding through blank fabrics, sloughing off
smashed pulp; a stigma in its perfection.

Not that it is of imperfect dimensions; oh no, each grain
streaming perfectly behind the other; no fault, no break.
An unadulterated mass of calibrated, measured reality; perfect in the extreme.

Now you see it, now you don’t. Those
blue shoes again, pounding away, no qualms for reconciliation.
That color, so bright, so disruptive. When it comes

you see nothing else; eyes glued to the slaty cleavage
of blue streaks, quivering at the glimpse of
the apocalyptic running apparatus.

Those shoes, they keep going. The energizer bunny of perverted
theories, the safeguard of atrophied minds. Wide eyes
swallow strangling thoughts; no more choke hold around your neck.

The streaks become muddled,
confused with commonplace facts. After indefinable eons
the shoes have stood still, ragged breaths shredding the carefully manicured haze.

A crowd of bulging eyes peeking out of the smudge of disarray;
drooping mouths form the cutting words:
“Who named you master of our fate?”

The Eclectic Pen » All Stories by Sarah C. (campbellsoup)

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Eva L. (wearetrees) - 3/20/2011 9:43 PM ET

This piece has a lot to bite. Some exquisite phrases: "a stigma in its perfection," for instance.

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The Eclectic Pen - Blue Running Apparatus

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