In Another Time.

In another time, or maybe just now,
someone has painted a moving stream
and it refuses to dry,
and the clouds move across the day,
and the grass waves purple to a passing wind.

In another time, or maybe just now,
on a beach, the most beautiful of palaces ever built,
is left to the incoming waves, when its architect
is called away; time for work, no time for play.

In another time, or maybe just now,
a lick becomes a riff, and a guitarist plays
until his bedroom ceiling fades away to sky,
and a sky gives way to stars and their lonely cry.

In another time, or maybe just now,
someone has had a moment of clarity,
a moment when they were completely aware,
while I can only tinker, swapping lives and dreams,
looking for a hat that fits both me, and my own reflection.

Somewhere, I am sure,
someone has managed to lift a feather,
with only the power of their mind,
slowed down a clock, or even bent a spoon.
I find my levitation technique is still crap,
not even a millimetre of lift, despite all 
the years of effort.

And in another time, or maybe just now,
nothing is happening,
because if nothing never happened
there would only be nothing.

© niall oconnor 2015