bolts of lightning sprinting past.
cut them off -
they are only a nuisance.
one by one, all that was gained
falls defeated to the beckoning floor -
they are swallowed and
digested into the handiwork of man.
the photographs recall what was
once your face. it is now
tattered like a worn book that was
loved, now thrown into
the bottom of a mildewed box -
you have reason to worry this time -
your stench lingers in every molecule you touch.