Cannon Fodder: A Nightmare or Two

The bus is moving, but the bird is frozen in flight. Snow piles high and deep, quick and quiet now, as does the silence. No squeal of tires, no sound of my breath. Numb and noiseless. I go back in time and pull things forward at great cost. So many questions over an impossible feat. Sacrifice my left leg below the knee and left pinkie. Three years of my life also given to a bed, in a coma, in a sterile ICU. No breathing on my own. I wake to stubborn lover in thought and crush, I don't know them, but the intent is good. Shift and phase. Pleading, prying, trying to convince the unbelievers. My motives are shadowed by great doubt and in turn I begin to doubt them to. Homosexuals are not pedophiles. The act of violating a child makes me sick, I wretch. Accusations fly where birds do not and I fall from grace like the snow. Thick, the silence itself is thick. If I turn around Death will have me for that which I have stolen from Him. Wet, fetid, slimy breath, if breath can indeed be slimy, beats and rolls around the back of my neck, over my shoulders, down my chest. 5 seconds. Soft ticks sound off like dynamite blasts. Epic Fail. Cough. Awake.