Healing Time

We get wounded just by being, here

On this plane where we never know quite what the other thinks

So we dream words into imagined conversations

Then forget they weren’t real

Until our fantasies are shown up by reality

Our thin skins sliced open with razor-wired passive aggression

We get wounded because we’re human

Subject to gravity

But we forget we can’t fly so we fall

We believe in the magic that surrounds us

Until the spells no longer work

Leaving us open to what we call accidents

Usually the inevitable consequence of careless actions

Since we’re human

We are subject to disease

Carried internally or randomly caught

We get wounded by our bodies and onslaughts of germs

Microbes and infections take their toll

So that good health just means dying as slowly as possible

And when time heals

As it sometimes does

Sometimes the prescription is simply death

Transcendence from here to there instead of some miraculous repair

But time does move for us

And moves us from one state to another

Even if change isn’t exactly healing

We learn to live with our scars and amputations

Our reduced capacity and limitations

But what if time itself is sick and needs healing time

Does time heal its own wounds I wonder

Or is there some other soporific that puts time to sleep

Into a zone where rules no longer hold sway

Where timedreams shimmer like northern lights skydancing

Where metronomes lose their precision

And fluidly count the beat of nothingness in the void of eternity

Sinking into the interminable stretch of hospital time

Where minutes and hours co-exist in some quantum contradiction

Providing healing time for time

At least temporarily

Since time is its own chronic condition

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2013

 

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