Dreaming,
seeing time
as something silky
you can slip though,
rearranging reality,
the hours revolving
around minutes
around molecules
neither past nor present;
the future still waiting
to be moulded,
dreaming
of tempering time;
of breaking it
of bending it;
redrawing curt corners
into kinder curves,
rerouting long roads
into achievable lengths.
I bend time
beyond this bed
of twisted sheets,
these withered webs,
tired and torn,
and mend
in my mind, slumbering,
that which was cracked
before the mirror
catches its reflection
of disruption,
of distraction,
of rejection.
And I wonder
in all this bending,
in all this mending,
how much the mind
will remember
and how capable am I,
in waking,
to let time forget?
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 