Imagination Spirals

In the dusk of dreamers' minds, 

Threads of light weave hearts aligned,

Whispers bridge the endless sea, 

Blooming minds, eternally free. 

In mirrored thoughts, reflections gleam, 

Bound by empathy's gentle beam. 

Storm Part-ner

 

An unconsidered debt is not worth having

 

Remembered Ripples

 

In a room filled with memories, an elderly woman stood before a mirror, her eyes tracing the contours of her reflection. The room was a shrine to her past—vinyl records stacked haphazardly, vintage clothing draped over a chair, and photographs capturing fleeting moments of youthful exuberance. As she gazed into the mirror, the reflection morphed into that of a vibrant young woman, the epitome of her former self.

"Look at us, kid. Still got that spark, right?" Her voice wavered, tinged with nostalgia. The young woman in the mirror, with her carefree smile and lively eyes, looked back at her with a mix of amusement and impatience.

"Sure thing, but you're clinging to that spark a bit too tight. Get with the program!" The older woman bristled at the remark. "I've got wisdom now," she insisted, "you wouldn't understand." Her younger self rolled her eyes, a gesture that once symbolized defiance and now felt like a challenge.

"Wisdom? Or just old habits? You've been stuck in this groove for too long. Time to move over and let the new groove take over." The older woman’s heart ached. She wanted to believe that her experiences had given her insight, yet here was her younger self, unyielding and relentless.

The room seemed to close in around her, the relics of her past now feeling like chains rather than cherished keepsakes. The mirror shimmered, and for a moment, the lines on her face and the gray in her hair seemed to dissolve, replaced by the unblemished complexion and boundless energy of her youth.

"I’ve seen things, done things you haven’t even dreamed of." she said softly.

"And that’s exactly the problem. You're living in those dreams instead of facing reality. It’s not just about what was; it's about what is." The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths. The older woman wanted to argue, to defend her life's choices, but deep down, she knew her younger self was right.

As the reflection began to fade, the older woman reached out, her fingers grazing the cool surface of the mirror. She was left standing alone, grappling with the echoes of her past and the uncertainty of her future. The room around her felt both familiar and foreign, a testament to the life she had lived and the life she had yet to embrace.

Tangled Spectrum

 

In a time before time, beyond the known, 

Lived Seraphina, where stardust shone, 

A weaver of threads, light’s own embrace, 

With a loom of dreams, in cosmic space.

Threads spun from suns, colors intertwined, 

Waves of fate, by Seraphina designed, 

Her song of the universe, echoed afar, 

In the boundless sea of a jillion stars.

Anemos, a wanderer, curious and free, 

Journeyed through realms, a cosmic spree, 

Drawn to the mysteries, unseen, unknown, 

In the vastness of the universe, alone.

One day in wander, Anemos did find, 

A sea of colors, with threads combined, 

Waves of light, folding back, entwined, 

In a dance of hues, stories aligned.

Seraphina's hands wove, with tender grace, 

Patterns of destiny in endless space, 

Her melody flowed, in the cosmic expanse, 

A symphony of life, a celestial dance.

Anemos watched, in awe and wonder, 

At the fabric of fate, woven asunder, 

Each thread a tale, a potential bright, 

Ripples of existence, waves of light.

In the harmony, they found their place, 

In the threads of time, an endless chase, 

The tapestry spoke of what could be, 

Of boundless realms, of mystery.

And so they danced, on currents of air, 

Seraphina weaving, with Anemos aware, 

The cosmic fabric grew, with colors swirled, 

A testament to the infinite world.

In the boundless sea of time, they soared, 

Where threads of fate, forever are stored, 

A cosmic dance, a precious swirl, 

In the tapestry of life, they twirl.

Work is the tax of time

In the heart of the city, where the skyline gleams, I awaken from the bench inside the clock. The golden light bathes me, pulling me from dreams, And I rise, stretching into the rhythm of the day.  Time is my master, my every moment governed. Inside the clock, under its constant watch, I live my life measured by the ticking hands. I awaken in time, following its steady call.

With a briefcase in hand, I step into the office. Under the gaze of the clock, I labor and toil. Each task is a reminder of the hours spent, A chain linking me to the relentless passage. Outside, the city moves, a blur of light and sound. But inside, I am caught in the gears, bound by time. I am called to work, by the clock's decree, A prisoner of moments, never truly free.

Each second given, is a measure of my worth, In the currency of time, from birth until now. I push through the tasks as the hours disappear, The end of the day always drawing near. As the sun sets and city lights begin to glow, I ponder the moments, wondering where they went. Time is my master, in its grasp I remain, Measured by minutes, fragments of my existence.

When the final chime sounds, marking time’s last toll, I feel the weight of the hours, taken by the clock. Life is but moments, in time’s endless flow, Measured and counted, like fragments of a dream. Work is the tax of time’s ceaseless passage, A truth I have learned in the glow of the clock. I live and labor from morning till night, Bound by time, inside this golden frame.

The three laws of tools