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She wakes, she sleeps
She knows not day or date or hour
The clock that ticks and tocks
Does not measure out her days

Measured by the yard are they
The hook her minute hand
The stitch and row her hours
With them she captures what others call time

Time can be pain, and pain is hers
So she catches it up into stitches
And binds it down with rows
And it becomes a thing called beautiful

Time can be tedious, and that emptiness is hers
So she marks out the patterns
And binds off the ends
And it becomes a thing called useful

Time can be joy, and that too can be hers
So she uses the joy to drive her
Her fingers and thoughts speed in tandem
And it becomes thing new under the sun

Later, when these things are offered to others
Her pain, her tedium, her joy
They hold it in their hands  
They see the beauty, utility, and newness.

But the other things
They will never know, could never know
The mystery of her time and timelessness
Only she and her Gods mark on the tapestry that is her life
This is for the 'time' prompt on #Heart-of-Poetry. It's more than a bit autobiographical but I will leave it to my readers to say how much. ;)
:iconinsomnilepsy:
Insomnilepsy Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
This is so beautiful. :) I can relate to this in so many ways. Thank you for sharing!!
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Submitted on
March 13, 2012
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