Running from Time, by Maya Churi
I am running through the centuries.
My breath sinks into tomorrow.
I trip and fall into the Renaissance.
My scraped knee bleeds onto American Independence.
All of the world—tearing itself apart.
What is progress?—we still treat others terribly.
Raw and grotesque—this is the world.
How far have we come?
Technology seems to run with me.
Flying into the new world,
Those avante-garde influencers
All of us, the models, the religious, the depressed, the hungry,
We should all be proud that we have gotten so far,
Or should we?
Running through time,
Running from time...
Can we escape? Do we want to?
Is everything the same in this crazy psycho world?