When did I start running from the silence between words?
Filling the moments between with anything to pass by another swing of the pendulum.
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, why do I hate the hands of the clock?

Time passed…
Now a mirror sits at the front of my eyes
My reflection, inescapable.

The journey travelled has forged me anew,
Yet often I find myself an axe, wielded as a sword.
It begs a thought past horizons and into sunsets
With a shimmer that hides the wonder of distant futures.

Is a blade a blade because it looks so,
Or because it cuts?