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,


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