Abundance in time

We call it time; it calls it emotion.

A reflective poem on time as a witness, storyteller, journalist, and silent videocast. It is a presence that may know everything, where life becomes a projection through which time silently exists. The poem follows a beautiful story in the making, exploring how time may fade memory but never the way we feel. It moves toward the idea that time leads us to acceptance, even when the body resists it , a companion tale of time as a lens through which we see life, whether or not that lens is a true mirror, left open to reflection.

Time
The clock ticks on the wall,
records whenever we fall,
stored in pockets of memories.
We call it time; it calls it treasury.

Time
Like the waves,
may stand still, rise, or flow with the current.
Still,
always in motion,
decoding emotion.

Sometimes time is hard to pass.
When we ache, our souls want to break.
We feel as though time has paused,
or maybe we resist moving,
for we lose someone in the flow,
the one who was our life’s glow.

The pain,
tethered forever,
may heal, if time will allow.
And
we may not let life to swallow us. 

Time,
A teacher who never fails,
teaching us to step out of fairy tales.
It lists so many versions of us,
hard to remember which one is truly us.
A denial,
as
parts of us are dying
and new parts growing
to adapt to the motion.

We call it time;
it calls it emotion.

Time
Reminds me of when I was born.
It witnessed
the creation of memories
which I may have forgot,
for time records things
we never even sought

Time
Like a journal of a moving world,
as if all must happen
so time can move.
If life stopped,
time would cease to exist.

Time
The way we think of the past,
like a movie in a theater, and we are the cast.
It plays scenes
of youth and betrayal,
love or loss,
as if that’s where life is forecast.

Time
Looking to add meaning
for humans to enjoy living.
As time moves,
old pains find their pause.
Memories that haunt
forget their taunts,
slowly exit,
leaving their print,
and the muscle grows
for life to accept
that when the soul heals, time refracts.

Time
Records human inventions,
struggles and stories, human reflections
from signs to language
to machines that now talk.
And we wonder how our paths change as we walk,

as when old wisdom flows, 
new world glows.

Time
Maybe a maze
where our lives gaze.
As it moves, we sometimes lose
the moments to be in the moment.

When we blink,
we can watch our whole life
as imprints,
unsure what’s true or false.
As memories fade, our stories change.
time may steal
but can never take how we feel.

This world may be an imagination,
for all begins in the mind
before it ever happens in the grind,
a pure manifestation.

For some voices cease to exit;
their form may disappear,
but they never leave the hall
a voicemail which still rings.
And in that voice we only feel the pause.
Their presence is engraved in our prints.
We call it time; it calls it introspection.

Still, as leaves move freely with the wind,
we can be as free as birds.
All we need is not to follow the herd.
Fly free in the sky,
for in this life
we can be anything we seek to try.

All that happens will end.
Time exists until we pretend
life is not meant to be comprehended.
Living in the moment is the new trend.
Time may never truly heal;
it only teaches us to accept
what was once too hard to feel.