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.


Photo by Asael Peña on Unsplash