The clock is a hunter, steady and slow,
Collecting the debts that the moments owe.
The seeds in the garden, the rust on the gate,
They don’t ask for permission; they simply await.
Sooner is a spark, a sudden sharp light,
The thief in the morning, the turn in the night.
It’s the impulse to speak, the rush of the rain,
The quick-mending heart or the flash of the pain.
Later is a mountain, draped in the mist,
The letter unwritten, the chance that we missed.
It’s the quiet arrival of all we’ve deferred,
The echo of every unspoken word.
But time has a way of collapsing the line,
Turning the maybe to just in due time.
For the tide always turns and the shadows must grow,
And the river will find where it’s destined to go.
So let the world spin at its frantic, wild pace,
Or drift like a feather through infinite space.
The truth doesn’t hurry, and truth isn't late.....
It meets us exactly at the edge of the gate.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 1:32 AM UTC
The clock is a hunter, steady and slow,
Collecting the debts that the moments owe.
The seeds in the garden, the rust on the gate,
They don’t ask for permission; they simply await.
Sooner is a spark, a sudden sharp light,
The thief in the morning, the turn in the night.
It’s the impulse to speak, the rush of the rain,
The quick-mending heart or the flash of the pain.
Later is a mountain, draped in the mist,
The letter unwritten, the chance that we missed.
It’s the quiet arrival of all we’ve deferred,
The echo of every unspoken word.
But time has a way of collapsing the line,
Turning the maybe to just in due time.
For the tide always turns and the shadows must grow,
And the river will find where it’s destined to go.
So let the world spin at its frantic, wild pace,
Or drift like a feather through infinite space.
The truth doesn’t hurry, and truth isn't late.....
It meets us exactly at the edge of the gate.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
