Time and space don’t matter
here, as she walks along the brink
cautiously slipping into
and onto the shimmering page.

Time and space don’t bother
her, she looks upon the spine
slicing through light and beams
as the universe supports her.

Time does not envelop her
as she finds her space
an innermost inch, a room
to call her own, at last.

Space does not contain her
for yes, there will be time
reflected and refracted through
the chapters in her life.

Time flows and space constricts
but she, modern Promethea,
is unbound, the fallen chains
spark on weatherworn rock.

Space is fluid and time congealed
as an ice-cube washed ashore
that she may or may not pick up
take home and place on a pile

of unread pages, unfinished sketches
of a blind seer’s book.
As she steps out back into the cold
she’ll forget about it. It will melt.
Become one with the books
bleed into pages, blur the images
blend the lines, push the boundaries
and time and space won’t matter.