Behind the fanfare
we fan the light
to make our way
through another day
to night.
Behind the fuss
we muddle through movement
on route
to contentment
caught in quiet corners
of unconsciousness,
like that word
on the tip of the tongue
we can’t quite pronounce.

On terra-cotta tiles
I turn through cards of comfort
from days now distant,
wishes signed
with love from names
I can no longer call
in this light,
in this life.
Far from the fanfare,
far from the fuss,
you are all still somehow
a part of each movement I make,
distant stars now
that once had dreams,
that once signed cards
of greetings,
never thinking
how much one day
they would mean.

All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly

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