Codex of the Timestorm

A timestorm brews not in the sky,
But in the folds where moments lie.
Where seconds scatter like broken glass,
And futures drip, from which they pass.

No lightning—just clocks that scream,
As space folds inward, a chasing dream.
Rain that recalls, what wind forgets
 worlds shape in, as time dilates

In this phantom, dream-stalked sky
The long years of the morrow dies.
A neural sun, with watcher’s eye,
Only flickers, split by lies.

We walk through hours of hollow names,
Our shadows burnt by unborn flames.
And time, once master, begs and weep
For what it lost and cannot keep.