Semi-Daily Scribbles

The landscape is a riddle. So many left turns that lead right back to the fork. Now that's one ragged road. Craters and bubbling pools of goo. I keep a keen eye on where my feet land, when I'm not mesmerized by the blood red moon. Nights are filled with twisted confessions and writhing reflections. Sleep is out of the question as the dead demand to hear the news of the day. I make up pretty endings so no one is rattled. Bones and bygones stretch on for miles.