The Passing of Time

She sits in candle light, a stretched shadow over a wooden bar, her finger twirling in a glass of gin. She exudes the fragrance of worn leather and opium poppies, delicate as lace; a modern matriarch of yesteryear. In those days, she was beautiful and dangerous; she was arsenic and belladonna and dandelion wine. She flowed like honey; her name was pure grace. She curved like copper coils, warm to the touch. Her eyes were silver, shining, sharp like a machete. But now she feels aged, like yellowing pages of an ancient journal, left unread for generations.

She is surpassed in synaptic speed by a blurred beauty that punches through memory, overshooting into forgotten archives. This new nymph with faces that fly too fast to remember, but too numerous to ignore. Neon plumage decorates her like an electric peacock; she flashes her siren call, bringing men to her shore, with blinded eyes by acidic lights. This goddess of innovation accelerates faster to her oblivion, forever building her pyre of circuitry, where she ends in a flash of white light and suffocating silence.

So, she waits with her gin, drugging the room like laudanum, enduring, and waiting to revive.