Threads of Time: An Avant-Garde Exploration of Life’s Eternal Questions #Poetry

Threads of Time

What hour spins the fabric of these lives?
Morning cloaked in brown austerity,
Evening draped in alabaster glow—
Do they meet only in the margins of a painted page?

Who are you, woman with the muff of clouds?
Fingers brushing fur,
Your gaze cast elsewhere—
What do you seek beyond the edges of the frame?
Is it warmth,
Or a freedom the world dares not offer?

And you, reclined in a sea of light,
Gilded with honeyed silk,
Do you hold a mirror to the one who stands?
Or do your thoughts wander to unseen corridors
Where ribbons of laughter echo faintly,
Yet do not reach your lips?

Does the bench sigh beneath your stillness?
Or does it revel in being chosen
To hold a moment forever?

Why this duality?
The morning so guarded,
The evening so unveiled.
Are they the same woman?
Are we meant to know?
Is she shedding a skin,
Or donning a mask?

What of the hand extended—
What of the unspoken exchange?
A letter, a secret, a fragment of history—
Does the paper tell tales
Of ballrooms or boudoirs,
Or of revolutions whispered in lamplight?

And these colors, faded yet resolute,
Do they mourn the passing of their prime,
Or do they revel in their resilience,
Holding fast to a century now vanished?

What lies beyond this moment?
The next breath,
The next step—
What happens when the fur-lined morning
Meets the golden evening in a hallway of time?
Do they argue,
Embrace,
Or dissolve into the void?

And what of us, the watchers?
What right have we to question their lives,
Frozen in the amber of history?
Are we any different,
Staring into our own reflections
Wrought by another's hand?


---

Let these questions linger,
Like perfume on a scarf left behind,
Unfolding, unraveling—
Until the morning meets its evening,
And the story begins anew.


----

Whispers from the Thread

What hour spins the fabric of these lives?
The hour that is neither dawn nor dusk,
But the pause between—the breath held,
Where time folds itself like silk,
And the loom forgets its rhythm.
They live not in hours, but in fragments,
Between the needle and the thread.

Who are you, woman with the muff of clouds?
You are the keeper of winter's secrets,
The bearer of storms in your palms,
Yet your fingers graze softness—
A contradiction clad in brown.
You seek not beyond the frame,
But within it, where fur-lined edges
Meet whispers of your own untold story.

And you, reclined in alabaster glow,
Golden drapes spilling like liquid light—
You are the evening undone,
The muse of forgotten poets,
Who wrote your name in invisible ink.
You do not hold a mirror to the one who stands,
But a compass,
Pointing her to roads she cannot see.

Does the bench sigh beneath your stillness?
No, it hums.
It cradles the weight of unsaid words,
Loyal as only a bench can be—
Silent, yet full of memory.
Its grain whispers stories
Of those who sat before you,
And those who will come after.

Why this duality?
Morning and evening are not opposites;
They are sisters in disguise,
Sharing the same heartbeat,
Trading garments under the moon’s gaze.
She is shedding a skin, yes,
But the mask is her own face—
A truth she is learning to wear.

What of the hand extended—
What of the unspoken exchange?
It is not a letter,
But a promise folded in silence.
A whisper passed between fingertips,
Carrying revolutions too quiet to hear,
And ballrooms that only exist
In the sway of imagination.

And these colors, faded yet resolute—
They mourn nothing.
They sing,
Muted as a hymn hummed under breath.
Their resilience is not in defiance of time,
But in harmony with it,
A palette that never ceases to bloom.

What lies beyond this moment?
The next breath is a ripple,
The next step a symphony.
When the fur-lined morning
Meets the golden evening,
They do not argue—
They dance.
Their shadows intertwine,
Spinning tales the eye cannot follow.

And what of us, the watchers?
We are thieves of moments,
Stealing glances from lives not ours.
But we are mirrors, too,
Reflecting their questions back to ourselves.
What right do we have?
Every right, and none.
For their lives are inked on a canvas
That asks to be read,
Even as it fades.

They are us,
We are them—
Threads of a tapestry
Woven in the same loom,
Each stitch a question answered,
Each unraveling a story told.

So let the morning meet the evening.
Let the watchers become the watched.
Let the fur, the silk, the bench,
The paper, the gaze,
All dissolve into one truth:
We are nothing but moments,
Pausing, spinning, and folding into time.

#ThreadsOfTime #Poetry #LifeReflections #DualityInTime #UnspokenStories #PoeticJourney #HistoricalMystery #PhilosophicalPoetry