The Chronos Weaver

In halls where dust motes dance and shadows creep,

A silent sentinel its vigil keeps.

No forward march, no tick of what's to be,

But backward hums, for all eternity.

Each hand a ghost, rewinding light from shade,

Unmaking moments, deftly unafraid.

The fallen leaf ascends to bough again,

The whispered word retreats to thought's domain.

Rivers flow upstream, to mountain spring,

And broken vows forget their bitter sting.

The sun descends, then rises in the west,

As time's great tapestry begins to unthread.

Old laughter softly un-echos from the air,

And lines of worry vanish from the hair.

The tear-stained cheek grows smooth, the sorrow light,

As day unwinds into the womb of night.

A lover's touch, once lost, now un-begun,

Before the fragile race was ever run.

Yet memory, a cruel and steadfast guide,

Clings to the future that has been denied.

We live the past, as if it were to come,

A phantom orchestra, forever numb.

Each cherished moment, gained then gently lost,

A future's echo, at a backward cost.

Until the final chime, a silent sigh,

Unbinds the fabric 'neath an ancient sky.

Back to the breath before the world awoke,

Before the first word, or the spirit spoke.

A timeless void, where all begins to cease,

In backward motion, finding backward peace.