Untitled

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 - forgotten. you have reason to worry this time - your stench lingers in every molecule you touch. undying, immortal.