Sad Mimes

The colors. Stagnant and altruistic. As the drum beats. Hungry for a bold superstition. I rake her skin. In infinite loops. The dead leaves. Their diminishing hues. Ripe fruits. Fallen from the trees.

Toying with the time lines. Fingers pierce the many holes. An urgent mosaic draws the pictures. For broken crayons to color in. Blunt edges force the knife to press harder still. On the dense knots in her throat. The words pretend to know. She's not there. As she speaks them. In variations on this obvious apocalypse. She tears the paper in half. Waiting for the pieces to disappear. Rummaging through the selves she accumulated. Telling the story backwards. From the moment the future found her.

The universe pauses. To let us contemplate. Obvious ramifications. The end. Compares itself to a needless summer day. Pockets full of pollen. I save my sneeze for a more imposing plague. Devils coax the stage. In bits of poetry and skin. Not unlike the contracts between poets and madmen.

The step ladder at the edge of the room. Scares the attic awake. The black light bulb. Feverish with the electricity still coarsing through its shattered filament. I touch the switch, but nothing changes. The dark is still dark. And I can see just as well.

It's not officially time travel until you can't go back.