A cog springs wildly
into the air,
A cut aching mildly
On her skin so fair.
A world once great
Annihilated by a pandemic,
In silence made to wait
For a person; hero; brave; angelic.
Woodland burning,
Deserted homes.
Gizmos churning,
Destroyed garden gnomes.
The train tracks creak,
Abandoned, old,
As she makes a tweak
To her machine of gold.
The time-travelling transport
Finally complete,
She made herself to transport,
In itself a great feat.
This isn’t a vacation,
Or a plane for her to board.
She is answering a vocation,
Running; from a fast-approaching hoard.
The infected draw nearer,
She knows now is the time.
Groaning much louder, clearer.
The machine is at its prime.
She jumps inside and turns a knob,
It produces a great roar.
The vehicle runs over the mob,
The infected see it soar.
The time-machine crashes
On a British shore.
People gather in masses,
They don’t laugh any more.
The year is 2020,
The beginning of the curse.
Garden gnomes and trees a-plenty,
They have no idea it’ll get worse.
She stands on the sand
and loudly yells:
“Go home! Disband!
‘Till you hear victory bells!”
The people laugh
And abuse her with stones.
The cut on her calf
Reveals broken bones.
Out of frustration,
Our heroine sheds a tear.
Out of determination,
She shows them her world of fear.
With the snap of her finger,
They return to the beach.
They no longer linger,
Their car tyres screech.
Mission complete,
They’ll now wash their hands,
And keep to 6 feet,
Now they understand.
She safely returns
to the future primeval.
But in a massive turn:
We find out she’s evil.