Sent Backwards In Time To Research The Ever Diminishing Returns Of Regret

Whistle under cover of darkness,

a man erased from space-time,

future and past selves annihilating

in an explosion of particles,

matter and antimatter thrown

back into balance like

the early universe never grew up,

as if a single proton was

all that ever existed,

a blinking flutter of something

adrift in a sea of forsaken possibility.

 

This man, shaped like a scarecrow,

stuffed overalls revealing the confusion of animation,

movements masquerading as heartbeat,

the wind’s caress flowing

like the airy blood of nostalgia,

a sepia toned image of young love,

kissing under an ancient tree,

touching fingertips and carving an epitaph of eternity

with the endlessly sharp knives of their meeting eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

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