Time
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.
Tick.
(Third and final section of a long poem
The examination of time and its many modes.
A reflection on the experience of PTSD.)
RAC
