It arrives unannounced,
a shadow slipping through the cracks,
like spilled ink across the blueprint of our days.
We sense its weight long after birth— by then,
It’s already sprinting through the corridors of memory.
It comes and goes like the wind without a whisper,
a thief in velvet gloves,
a tornado that leaves only memory— no warning, no farewell.
Just here. Then gone. Then everywhere.
Like a tide that kisses the shore, then vanishes into dusk.
It gives us joy, then steals it back, like a magician with sleight of hand.
It makes us laugh until laughter aches, a violin string stretched too tight.
The right time gave us love, the wrong time took it away— like a train that arrived before we knew we were waiting.
Time is a trickster god, weaving fate with invisible thread.
It plants seasons in our bones, then harvests them without asking.
It builds cathedrals of hope, then lets ivy claim the altar.
It carves our names into stone, only to let rain wear them smooth.
It hums in lullabies and funeral hymns, a metronome we cannot silence.
It conducts our lives with no encore, no intermission, no applause.
Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 7:27 PM UTC
It arrives unannounced,
a shadow slipping through the cracks,
like spilled ink across the blueprint of our days.
We sense its weight long after birth— by then,
It’s already sprinting through the corridors of memory.
It comes and goes like the wind without a whisper,
a thief in velvet gloves,
a tornado that leaves only memory— no warning, no farewell.
Just here. Then gone. Then everywhere.
Like a tide that kisses the shore, then vanishes into dusk.
It gives us joy, then steals it back, like a magician with sleight of hand.
It makes us laugh until laughter aches, a violin string stretched too tight.
The right time gave us love, the wrong time took it away— like a train that arrived before we knew we were waiting.
Time is a trickster god, weaving fate with invisible thread.
It plants seasons in our bones, then harvests them without asking.
It builds cathedrals of hope, then lets ivy claim the altar.
It carves our names into stone, only to let rain wear them smooth.
It hums in lullabies and funeral hymns, a metronome we cannot silence.
It conducts our lives with no encore, no intermission, no applause.
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