Vox Clamantis in Deserto

First the past leaves you
 gasping as the slowly growing vacuum
 pulls and tears at the core of your chest

Then the narrow present wrings from you what little was left,
a vice of certainty,
No room to look for breath
Even if you remembered how.

Then finally the massive future,
ominously shrinking as it buries you
 in the dust you thought you’d left behind.

This poem may sound
Like the shape of the glass is to blame for all you’ve become.
It’s not.
You had a chance before you were lost beneath a temporal sahara.
Glass is easy to break.
Everything you are is your fault.