The turnstile is locked.
The passage not permitted.
Regardless of pay.
Shut out.
Trajectory altered.
Move the pieces.
The turnstile is locked.
Schedule skewed.
Fate unhinged.
Schemes collapse.
A timeline erased.
Move the pieces.
The turnstile is locked.
A little arm, and such power.
Wobbling wings on a butterfly.
And the earth shakes.
Velocity increased.
Move the pieces.
The turnstile is locked.
Calendars are but drawn boxes, neatly arranged.
Don’t mourn the loss of minutes for a moment.
You’re more precious to time than she is to you.
We shine in the continuum regardless of station.
We are the waves.
Crashing upon the earth.
