…time is an illusion

Image courtesy of Adobe Stock

In the night, time is an illusion
its beginning and end, dark and dreamless
but what is hidden at the centre is a journey
like wading deeper and deeper into a field of flowers
a night time garden formed of countless blooms
a sleepy fragrance that rises slowly in the quiet hours
and without warning, crashes through the wall of sleep
dreams blossoming out of the black ice of night
and you surrender to the river of possibilities
the things left behind, the things sought and yet to be found
in this timeless place they flow ceaselessly
flooding out in silence, but like the coldness of betrayal
they dance like distant memories, scattered and haunting
slowly fading like spring blossoms
in the harsh and unforgiving light of day
© Ann Bagnall