Phthisis

The future sticks out its tongue

In the eyes of the gentle past

It fears its own demise but knows it cannot last

This momentary throne

Precariously formed from its ashes

It takes the time we thought was ours below to be reborn

Throw us away like a stack of old paper

Learn not from our scrawls

Close your ears to our rantings

And come against us

Flex your hooked claws and sniff

Like a dog at the stench of our decaying minds

Distrust the deceitful math of our perishing eyes

Run away from the phthisicky past