The Photo Album That Holds Your Incarnations
Every photograph is a death of the self you were,
Your life a quest to save your younger versions,
Or destroy them.
The Photo Album that holds your incarnations
Is a museum that opens like a child’s pop-out book
And every instance captured with a flicker therein
Is an atomic fraction of all iterations that have appeared.
In your future there is an old man, or an old woman,
Who is holding you, not all but a few frames of you,
Chainstoking breath, desperate to utter the words they
Need you to hear, for you want to save yourself now,
Your self now.
The rest of the Album
Is burned.
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