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Time doesn’t move slow
If you were a butterfly you’d know
Chase the glow
Inspiration
Gentle melody
Flow
Cognition
Ephemeral beauty
Know
Transient light
Moon lit night
Carry it home
—Timothy Charles Carter
Time is an ocean that is free to move upon its own tide
The coming and the going always aligned
Truth without knowing
Reflecting endless skies
—Timothy Charles Carter
Bonnie Mar 2
Venice’s Commemorative Monument to Bartolomeo Colleoni - 1488



The general glares downwards from his horse,

faithfully keeping watch over the mundane,

the tedious progression of centuries.

A sentinel, he had imagined himself—a noble,

intended to become immortal,

traveling ever forward in time,

defying the erasure of memory.



But time is the enemy of all things.

The pigeons and the rain could be tolerated;

time, however, has become relentless and unyielding.

It has eroded his heroic relevance,

he watches unblinking as his glorious benevolence

fades from all memory.

Generation after weary generation

manifests the ruinous decay of collective forgetfulness.
The melancholy and futility of the fleeting nature of human remembrance.
© BonnieBayGallery 2025
Sam S Mar 1
If only I could bottle time,
hold it still, make it mine.
Catch the days before they pass,
pour them slow like a hourglass.
AE Mar 1
I scrolled through my camera roll. Here’s a photo from five years ago, it’s still fresh in the mind. In it were canola fields and a glittering wind. I could still feel the breeze lingering on my fingertips. It was me and a camera I no longer own, my dad, who, in his impatience, still drove me out to a field, outside city lines, so that I could take a photo of the sunset, for a class. There are some simple things, simple pictures. No person, or place of any significance, but they sit on you, right on your chest. They weigh heavy. I wonder why. Background set. Now I will look and feel the touch of yesterday. Swallowing every color in the picture and letting its sounds ring in my ear. I wonder why. No person or place of significance, but it sits on me, right on my chest.
Lalit Kumar Feb 28
Time drips slow like falling rain,
upon a heart weighed down with pain.
A thousand thoughts fill up my mind,
but no place left for peace to find.

By the sea, the wind still calls,
whispering stories through hollow halls.
Beneath the moon, beneath the sky,
I watch the stars and wonder why.

My soul is torn, yet still I smile,
walking cold and lost for miles.
The sun once warm, now barely light,
shadows stretch into the night.

I hold my breath, I close my eyes,
feel the fire where silence lies.
A single dream, a fleeting touch,
a whispered hope, but never much.

My hands still shake, my lips still burn,
for memories that won’t return.
The truth is heavy, life is loud,
the past is just a drifting cloud.

Yet in the dark, I still believe,
that something waits, beyond the grieve.
For even lost, we still remain—
a whisper carved into the rain.
I watched you walk away,
Like I was an outsider,
Like I wasn't the one who loved you.
Not once did you look back—
Both of us proud,
Not wanting to break
And speak the words
That would turn everything around.

One stop, one wait,
One foot in front of the other,
Would ease the heaviness
Of watching you walk away.
But here I am,
Stuck, standing still,
The world seamlessly
Going on around me.

Part of me is stuck in the shadow,
Everything moving
From one axis to the next.
Another part of me realizes
That when the earth changes axis
And rotates the other way,
No one really feels it.

And here I am,
Stuck either way.
In time, even dust
Has to move
Iska Feb 27
Days flit by
like a
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


As If watching a leaky faucet
In a plugged sink
The drops are slow to build
Weighted down by their own mass
As they reach a point where gravity
can no longer be surpassed,
To a
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


As they fall into the basin
scattering ripples
And splattering droplets
As they fall
Gathering light in a glittering bowl
As the next drop slowly begins to flow
By the
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


But once you’re attention is pulled
And the visual is no longer there
Only a sound heard
Consistent tempo filling the air
Seeming to speed
where eyes can’t see
And the budding drops
fall carelessly
With a
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


before you know it the basin is filled
With the drops cascading
beyond ones will
And the ripples now
scatter to waves against the brim
Caving to gravities endless whim
As a
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


Once you notice, it’s far too late
The marble is shimmering
with streams and ponds
As it tallies the fee of water wasted
So too does time slip from the basin
And the coins we pay
exchanged with age
To a
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drop


Before you know it
time has come to a stop
along with both
the drip
and the drop
irinia Feb 27
history invents the art of crying
writing its darkness manifesto
when the tear is hidden
the path follows a forced destiny.
what is there, to be found inside ourselves
something is looking at us
tribulations of mirage, the hazard of necessity
the word, the gun, the bone -
the threads of the revelation of time
sometimes history flows backwards
and my skull hurts like a broken umbrella
we taste the past, an obsessive memory
future, this Terra incognita, casts a muddy light
what is there to be found in the history of bones?
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