I am the Clock's most honest Part —  
The Weight that swings between  
The Ecstasy of Noon — and Night's  
Confession of the Mean —  

My Arc describes what Science cannot —  
The Geography of Mood —  
From Apex Joy to Nadir's Grief —  
The Soul's own Altitude —  

When Morning lifts me to the Sky —  
I think myself a Bird —  
That Gravity is but a Myth —  
And Flight — the only Word —  

The World becomes a Jewel Box —  
Each Moment — burnished Gold —  
I am the Sun's own Confidence —  
Too radiant to hold —  

My Thoughts — like Hummingbirds — alight  
On every blooming Thing —  
From Flower — unto Flower — dart —  
On iridescent Wing —  

I speak in Colors then — not Words —  
Paint Symphonies on Air —  
The Universe conspires with Me —  
To make all Life — a Prayer —  

But oh — the Swing's relentless Law —  
What rises — must descend —  
The very Height that blessed Me —  
Becomes my Journey's End —  

I plummet past the Middle Ground —  
Where others make their Home —  
Into the Valley of the Self —  
Where I must walk — alone —  

The Darkness here — is not mere Night —  
But Absence — of the Sun —  
Where even Shadow requires Light —  
And I — have become — None —  

My Thoughts — like Mourners — dressed in Black —  
Process through empty Rooms —  
While Hope — that bright Aristocrat —  
Lies buried in the Tombs —  

I am the Weight — that cannot lift —  
The Clock — that will not chime —  
Suspended in the Lower Arc —  
Of my unmetered Time —  

Yet in this Valley of the Low —  
Strange Intimacies grow —  
With Sorrow — I keep house — and learn  
What Joy can never know —  

The Texture of a Tear — the Weight  
Of Silence in a Room —  
The way that Grief — like Morning Dew —  
Makes everything assume —  

A Clarity — unknown to those  
Who live in Middle Air —  
The Depths teach what the Heights cannot —  
That Beauty dwells — in Care —  

But Physics will not let me rest —  
In either Realm too long —  
The Pendulum's appointed Task —  
Is Motion — like a Song —  

That has no Rest — between its Notes —  
But only — the Between —  
Where Silence holds the Melody —  
And Motion — stays unseen —  

So up I swing — toward Ecstasy —  
My Depression — left behind —  
Like baggage on a Platform — when  
The Train has changed my Mind —  

The ascent — is not gentle — but  
A Rocket to the Stars —  
Where every Cell becomes a Sun —  
And Wounds — become my Scars —  

Of Glory — not of Suffering —  
For Pain — transformed by Height —  
Becomes the very Fuel that  
Propels me toward the Light —  

I am Electric — then — a Wire  
Through which the Current runs —  
Of every Thought — that ever was —  
Connected — to all Suns —  

The Mania — is not Madness — but  
A Language few can speak —  
Where Colors have their Voices — and  
The Stars — bend down to seek —  

My counsel — for I hold the Key  
To Time's most secret Door —  
Where Past and Future — collapse — into  
The eternal — Evermore —  

But even Angels — tire of Flight —  
And I — must swing again —  
Back toward the Earth — that calls my Name  
With Gravity's — sweet Pain —  

The descent — is not a Falling — but  
A Gathering — of Weight —  
Where every high — and holy Thing —  
Must meet its — lower Fate —  

Not Punishment — but Physics — draws  
Me downward — from the Sky —  
For what is Pendulum — without  
Its necessary — Cry —  

Between the Poles — of Self — I swing —  
Two Strangers — in one Frame —  
The one who touches — Heaven's Face —  
The one who bears — the Shame —  

Of being Human — after all —  
Despite the lofty Claims —  
That Mania — whispers in my Ear —  
Like Seraphim — with Names —  

I cannot speak — when Sober — for  
The ordinary Tongue —  
Has no Translation — for the Songs  
That in my Heights — are sung —  

Nor can I sing — when lowly — for  
The Throat — constricts with Grief —  
And Words — like strangled Birds — die before  
They can — bring Relief —  

But in the Swing — itself — I find  
A Language — more than Both —  
The Grammar — of the In-Between —  
More faithful — than an Oath —  

For I am Verb — not Noun — you see —  
Not Being — but Becoming —  
The Sentence — that the Universe  
Writes — in its — own Summing —  

The Pendulum — speaks truest — when  
It neither — High nor Low —  
But in the Moment — of the Turn —  
Where both — Directions — go —  

That instant — when the Forces — pause —  
Before they change their Mind —  
Where Gravity — and Momentum — meet —  
And leave the Self — behind —  

In that suspended — Breath — between  
The Rapture — and the Fall —  
I find the Center — of myself —  
That is — no Self — at all —  

But Motion — pure — and purposeless —  
Yet somehow — more than Planned —  
The Swing — that keeps the Time — of Hearts  
That others — understand —  

Not as Disease — but as Design —  
The Pattern — Life requires —  
When Souls are built — for Extremes — and not  
For Comfort's — small Desires —  

We are the Clocks — that measure not  
The Hours — but the Heart —  
Our Pendulum — the truest Way  
To calibrate — Love's Art —  

For who — that has not swung — between  
The Ceiling — and the Floor —  
Can know — what Ordinary — costs —  
Or what — Extremes — are for —  

So let me swing — my faithful Arc —  
From Darkness — into Light —  
The Pendulum's — most sacred Task —  
Is keeping — Time — in Flight —  

Between the Question — and Answer —  
Between the Self — and Soul —  
I swing — and in that Swinging — find  
  My broken — made me — Whole —