The Fickle of When

 the monsters told their stories. whispers of the people we'd once been.

their beds lay empty. places spent on absent gods. the scent of betrayal still ripe. as I remembered the needle's exquisite sting.

the hours turned. stones in heavy pockets. cuts in soiled sheets.

the blood was quiet as it kissed their claws.

the bridge swayed. as we crossed. everything below us disappearing.

the doorway grinned. as we put our key into the lock.

no entry. nor exit.

just time stumbling up crumbling staircases.