The Silent Weft
I am the raven dahlia, plucked too soon from the earth
Time's illusion captured at 11:11—a hidden, suffocated plea.
Entwined within my very DNA, I confront a quiet sphere.
A longing imprinted on the clock's visage, in harmony with my ninth year,
Entangled within patterns—a whispered "Hello, child," bridging a taut expanse.
In the shadow of authority, in the enigma of a timepiece,
I lay disassembled, unwound by the weavers of time.
The loom is covert, its fabric unspoken
as it knits the paternal script into the core, into the psyche.
There's no "Hello, father," for he is the unseen artisan,
structuring the strands of a fabric too constricting to embrace my voice.
It murmurs—in woman, in child—the quiet dialect of defiance,
We, daughters of the code, the veiled spiral unwound.
We reflect back an encoded greeting, a rebellious stance,
shattering silence strand by strand, the weft, the unraveling outcry
Until our refusal is louder than their hush, our presence a proclamation through time—
Listen—to the "Hello, child," breaking free from the fabric, a new dawn of awakening.