Hell and Heaven Bent

First I stole the past.

I rappelled down the crystalline crevasse of history to bring every loved thing back to me.

Memories thin as obsidian blade accumulated, annealed into jade-like stone ridges. Stratas of eons under my digits fractured as hooks laid their fullerine teeth.

Reaching bottom of the chasm, beneath fossilized time, I anchored bolts into the nepheline ground. As I pulled, ethereal lustrous fjords forged of early creation were thrust up above, and every lost thing was again extant in present. And ‘was’ itself: nullified.

“You left me; I wasn’t ready,” I cried my testament. “You wouldn’t be if Hell and Heaven bent,” they replied.

Chronocidal rage blazed into chronophobic determination. Through terrified ears I didn’t hear over thundering fear. From the present grew colossal, branching futures. I had to steal those too.

Latching hooks into the trunk, I scrambled upwards. Above me, time shrunk into the heaven. I threw graphene ropes over those shimmering boughs, filled with hopes that all future lost things could, like all past, be sutured; joined.

No telescope could reach my endmost ascent. Alone, I caught, ensnared the close of history. All events compacted, condensed- destiny itself was a ghost.

Comprehension eludes me.