She stands where the river blows her hair wild

no youth and no favor for her
no hands to clean the salt licks on her skin
her palms are dreams wrinkled dry
yet craving an offer.

You come from a distant land, she says,
heavens bless you.

I got no small change, I respond,
my mind drifts to ponder,

a small change, I need that too,
always hungered for
and faltered through
like I missed the vessel narrowly
to be on the river's other side.

Maybe when I come back,
I turn toward her.

She was gone.

The truth is
A window and a mirror
The holy grail and a dark lake
The recorded history of men
Is an imperfect amalgamation
Birth is it's most honest moment.

A picture
                 slices a sliver of time
                                the traveller rewinds
and misses a beat

We can live life
                                          or
create timelines unlived

Robot replaces all unpleasantries

A picture,
cut from the reel of reality.
Nobody to miss the time,
between the jumpcuts.
Except, when you've had
a few too many