Pythagoras' Paradox

it was old before it was young.
the face of time.
its calloused grin.
its tenuous thirst for what we call life. 

we chase the miles.
strays in ragged collars.
our leashes cut.

we wear the math.
a feast of choices subrogating
to a frenzy of touch. 

the machine is assembled.
its engine stirs.
a beast condemned
to the infinite measure of a promise. 

our fingers keep count.
our eyes wrestle with the colors. 

the fairy tale lumbers through our veins.
much louder than our consent. 

we stab at the protagonist.
certain the villain has been exposed. 

but time is a fickle pendulum. 

and our stories rarely end as we expect.