The Weaver of Time
He watched the world, a play of hurried things,
A frantic dance of what the next day brings.
They rushed for prizes, monuments of rust,
And built their kingdoms out of fading dust.
He saw the fear, the frantic, blind pursuit,
The bitter branches on a dying root.
He turned his back on the ticking of the clock,
Ignored the clamor, the world's insistent knock.
He found his peace in a different kind of beat,
The gentle rhythm of a bicycle's feet.
He sowed a garden, a whisper of a dream,
A life created from a silent stream.
For he has felt the void's serene embrace,
A place beyond the frantic, earthly race.
He knows the body is a fragile shell,
A temporary space where spirits dwell.
He saw the mannequins, the empty, painted faces,
And understood this world of fleeting graces.
So let them rush and build their crumbling walls,
And chase the whispers of their empty calls.
He stands and waits, a weaver of the slow,
For the final door to open, where he can truly go.
He holds no fear, no sorrow, and no strife,
Just the quiet promise of a different life.
The dream comes when the quiet hours descend,
When waking thoughts and hurried motions end.
He steps across a threshold, fine as lace,
And finds his solace in that other place.
The air is brighter, and the sky is new,
A vibrant world of a more honest hue.
He soars on winds the body can't command,
Above the limits of this fragile land.
He walks the bridge that spans the waiting years,
And finds his comfort, quieting his fears.
He sees the faces he has known and loved,
Their gentle presence, a spirit from above.
The world of dawn is pale and thin and slow,
A sketched-out place where silent figures go.
But in his sleep, the truest life he finds,
A rich reality that fills his mind.
He wakes to wait, a journey in between,
A silent actor in a borrowed scene.
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