WHEN THE EMPRESS IS REMOVED FROM THE EMPIRE

 

There is art
           on walls,
               winding walls,
            in rooms
       on show
           with light,
                    luscious light,
                          and climate controls
                                   while she’s sidelined
                                to the shadows
                         to weep
                              for the darkness
                                        that devours her
                                               skin, stuck like tar
                                                       and trapped in stone
                                                once tempered
                                 by an artists touch
                      now off and absent,
             now long grown
                  cold, not being of stone
                                   but breaking bone,
                                                while she weeps
                         neath polished position
         on partitioned pedestal
and waits
        in the shadow
                      of his name
                         long forgotten from rooms
                alight with art
                                on walls,
                                          the art
                                                of other men,
                                                            maybe more remembered

          like lands,
                  once considered,
                           now grown careless
                                                in their unions
                                         next to nations
                                    who have not
                                          nurtured the need
                                                              to be noticed
                                                      for notions
                                               long ago
     set in stone.

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio Version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/when-the-empress-is-removed

 

 

SEASONAL SHIFT

I shift like nature, calling snows
To coat me, cover me in a crisp
Canvas of change to bathe in,
To be reborn in, before I skate away
From winds that wither my world.
Bone chilled, I can wander off
To warmer shores, eager for sun
To sooth me, to sink within me
In the form of friend, in the hope
Of something more significant,
Safely steering past the storms
Sent solely to scare, to remind me
Of nature and it’s naughtiness,
Prickling and pruning me, nipping
Away at my every blossom, often
Plucking me at every possibility.
I can be a season of hurricanes,
All harshened and hardened
By human history. I too can tear
Through territories and leave
My markings. I can command a sea
Of storms, all of my own making,
And rise a wave to part the oceans,
To aid me in my crossing to a new
Wide world of my own creation.