Poems and Curios

Time is the prison we have constructed around ourselves, fortified with each year of manual labor, the sentence for no crime. Its bars become familiar, even comfortable, home to minds that crave regimented schedules after their imaginations evaporated on the last summer days of childhood. To be free, one only has to walk away.

I take a sip of coffee. Equilibriums shift; electrons orbit; cells stain. Centuries from now, what marvels of medicine will laugh at my self-imposed decay? What fossilized records will remain to compare to the inconceivable miracles obvious in future potions? The frame of reference slides back into focus. I take another sip of coffee.