The memories

Will not go.


As incoherent

As the rattle

Of an empty plate

The image of a bell

Of an empty tea cup

Turned upside down

Chimes intertwine

Merging for reasons

That maybe sublime

In their incoherence.


A bell chimes

Making time

An upturned cup

Signs no more

I am empty

I am full.


There is always time

There always was time

There always will be time

Time is time

But our time

Is a brief fluttering


We lose track

Of time

Unless we live

Our days

As if they are our last

Mere flutterings.


Dickery, dickery, dock

The mouse ran up the clock

The clock struck one

the mouse ran down

Dickery, dickery, dock.


Tick tock tick tock

tick tock tick tock.



(Third and final section of a long poem

The examination of time and its many modes.

A reflection on the experience of PTSD.)