Dishrags on the Engine

The stem. Obsequious antecedent. With fingers in the pudding. Foul desserts bury the story in heavy tongues. A world away. Dead things are not. The obvious of other worlds. Not my scapegoat. Lukewarm flames. Taunt the fire. As it dazzles the rain. With broken fists.

The elevator stops. Between floors. I get off anyway. The man in his tuxedo panting. Stale poetry. The girl in his gown. unravelled as her cheap stockings.

The murder comes in random sequences. I chase the future as fast as I am chased by it. Weaving between worlds. In a pattern simple enough to deconstruct. The rabbit in its race trusting. Natural force. The tortoise in its shell. Assuming justice.

Neither. Both. Are rewarded.

The time on her wrist. In paranoid breaths. Reaches for the atoms. As they accelerate. The truth in her skin. Turns over the rock.

Finds nothing underneath.

There is a moment when all these worlds collide. Past. Present. Future. There is a chances that all these gods will die. And we will be able to live again.