The Time Machine Poem by Amos Greig

It begins almost motherly,
a return to the warmth of the womb,
a central point on the journey to oblivion,
time travel is a lie an uncaring trick of time.

Slowly through rheumatic eyes the present,
fades away, sound, cold, future,
all these are frozen,
waiting release..

The first signs of possibility,
appear bubbles in the stream,
each a window, a doorway,
into the past,

Here a child did not fall out of bed,
their sudden awakening saving the lives
of those dwelling within.
The Time Machine is a lie.

Rather than showing the past,
each portal leads to a distortion,
a prison for the unwary,
Here he went to university;

sought his dream as an artist,
there is a tightness now,
sudden desire to breathe,
The Time Machine will not allow it.

The traveller realizes,
the trap they are caught in,
Focused so tightly on the
journey they did not notice the;

failing strength in limbs,
there is an urgency now,
a burning now time seeks,
to consume them.

A sound, a voice, a mothers distant
cry, the present has almost faded to black,
Hairy thews pluck the traveller from,
the machine breathe life back into;

fragile body too weak for time travel,
too weak to be left unsupervised,
in the local pool the boy opens his
eyes and cries. `