The Product of the bile that escapes my throat

Disguised as words, and

The gentle stirring of my chest

Of phrases left unsaid

Drapes Herself in the finest velour

And calls Herself my fate.

Thinkers toiling in cold, white rooms, I am told,

Have turned back time, and

A certain fortunate Electron

Had the privilege to relive

A millionth of a second,

A fraction of a blink of an eye.

But I am not an Electron,

And no Thinker of sound mind would move mountains

To turn back time for a foolish Child

Who cannot see but a Second ahead

In the Day of Life.

And clips her own Wings

Then complains that She cannot fly.