The Curse of Time

No dead things she said. Not tonight. Chaos instead. Lightning bolts of skin and thunderstorms of fingers. Still machines. The throttle's shallow breaths. As the brakes fails us, but we come to a stop nonetheless.

Lost in the fiction of broken flesh. Limbs telling stories our organs could have not written. Found. Frivolous wars with the alternative.

Near enough to the sun to see its lungs expanding.

Steps at every corner. Doors dividing each of them. All these keys useless without the locks.

The neanderthal in my time machine laughing at me.

No dead things tonight. Just the living to blame. For the glass under her nails. And the empty elevators.

Numbers of the verge of sentience. Attempting to determine what organic life is worth.

The fingers of the dolls pointing. The elements of the cure fortifying this disease.

What happened is gone. My feeble cheats all undone. Our future evolves to accommodate our follies. But our past is still unchanged.