Time slides off tables like a mercurial margarine that has gone too soft after its ‘use by’ date.
Numbers and minutes are meaningless
when your feet are up in stirrups,
when you see hoary, wizened faces, in ceiling tile dots,
when you feel the sting of the saw that cuts the flesh out to send away,
and you think about the tools of the trade
as you listen to the doctor’s heavy breathing
while her fingers plunge into you.
Time stops for eternities.
Time drips like raindrops, falling on parched, begging land,
when a train pulls into an empty station at 3am,
whistle blowing, echoes bounce off concrete, piercing a lonely night,
with no one to hear but the drunks and the poets. Only the drunks yell back.
Time hangs from tree branches as the Cicadas die, falling from aged twigs into brackish ponds.
Years, and years of time, float softly by, buried and unnoticed,
until it’s time to sing and fly.
The blatant thief steals life
and time is much to soon.
Time wraps around you when you dream at night,
when things that go bump give you a fright, it soothes
like a dog’s deep loving eyes.
It both heals and reveals all things,
a flicker of an eyelash,
tear stained, trembling flesh.
Listen to Persistence Of Memory by Rebecca Askew #np on #SoundCloud