The clock’s slow hands release their grip,
A whispered breath begins to slip,
Through corridors of fading light,
Where shadows stretch to meet the night.
The week’s tight chains dissolve in air,
Like molten glass that melts with care,
Each task undone, a thread unspun,
The loom of time undone, begun.
A tide that lifts the anchored soul,
Unfurls the sails toward the whole,
Where moments drip like honeyed rain,
And silence hums a sweet refrain.
The pulse of hours quickens now,
As freedom’s seed takes root somehow,
Beneath the skin, a quiet fire,
A spark of vast, unspoken choir.
No longer bound by duty’s weight,
The mind escapes its narrow gate,
To wander fields where dreams convene,
In Friday’s glow, serene, unseen.
A meditative piece about the quiet transformation that Friday evenings bring the slow release from duty into dreaming, from structure into stillness. Written to capture the soft beauty of transition.
