I
Time loosens her braids when I’m alone,
a restless pulse beneath the bone.
Minutes curl like smoke in air,
while hours freeze mid-stride, unaware.
Moments break open, spill their light,
turning noon to trembling night.
Inside me, seasons shift their ground,
and silence grows where clocks make sound.
II
I move like thunder taught to wait,
a patient fury at the gate.
Shadows lengthen, hopes retreat,
yet fire stirs under my feet.
Storms don’t ask the world to bend,
they simply rise, begin, ascend.
And so my minutes crack and spark,
twin lanterns flaring in the dark.
III
Some days drift soft as a falling leaf,
the wind a whisper of borrowed grief.
Other days sprint with a wild desire,
breath a drum and heart a pyre.
I hold both speeds in a single hand,
like ocean foam and burning sand.
The world outside keeps marching on,
but inside me, time is never one.
IV
I’ve known the luxury of slow despair,
when each second unfolds like an offered prayer.
I’ve tasted the rush of sudden grace,
when an hour dissolves without a trace.
Contrasts crown me, calm and wild,
the storm, the echo, the wounded child.
And through it all, a quiet truth—
my inner clock rewrites my youth.
V
Sometimes the past returns as rain,
soft, relentless, naming pain.
It taps on windows I’ve boarded tight,
it asks for entry in the night.
Yet I have learned to listen through,
not drown, not fold, but feel it true.
Rain remembers, storms forgive—
both are ways the lost still live.
VI
And then there are days that split in two,
both dusk and dawn in the same soft hue.
Time becomes a river without a shore,
both less and more, and still yet more.
I wade through versions of who I’ve been,
threading storms beneath my skin.
Every pulse, every breath I borrow,
shapes the storms I’ll meet tomorrow.
VII
Inside me, clocks don’t tick—they bloom,
petals folding around the room.
Each moment a flower, fierce and brief,
opening slowly, closing in grief.
Yet even grief has its steady flame—
the quiet insistence of a name.
And I, a storm who learns to stay,
shape time in my own unruly way.
VIII
So let the world keep perfect score;
I won’t be measured anymore.
My storms move with a different will,
both violent surge and waiting still.
In every clash of dark and bright,
I gather fragments into light.
Time may stagger, split, or run—
inside me, all its paths are one.