The Hourglass Dreamer Poem by Sumita Jetley

In the cluttered room where shadows fall,
Mira sat, a writer stalled.
A ghost of dreams, her fingers froze,
Blank pages stared, her doubts arose.

Her grandmother's attic, a place of lore,
Hid treasures locked behind its door.
There, amidst the dust and brass,
She found an ornate hourglass.

"For the timeless dreamers, " its base engraved,
A promise held, a life enslaved.
She placed it home, an idle charm,
Unaware it bore a silent harm.

With a frustrated sigh, she flipped it over,
And the world went still, a muted rover.
The hum of life, the ticking clock,
All faded into timeless rock.

Words poured out, a river untamed,
A masterpiece born, her soul unframed.
She wrote through nights, through endless calm,
The hourglass sand, a soothing balm.

But whispers came with each turn made,
Memories dimmed, and colors decayed.
Her grandmother's chai, her best friend's face,
Began to vanish, leaving no trace.

A knock at the door, and Caleb appeared,
His voice was quiet, his eyes were seared.
"You've used the glass; it steals your soul.
It takes your life to make you whole."

She laughed at first, then saw the truth,
A haunting woman, a picture's proof.
A radiant face turned hollow, still,
The hourglass claimed its endless fill.

She swore to stop, but the pull was strong,
Her novel called—a siren's song.
With trembling hands, she turned it once more,
The room cracked open, a breaking floor.

Walls dissolved, her reflection gone,
The hourglass pulsed; its sand was drawn.
"You must destroy it! " Caleb cried,
But Mira clung, her purpose tied.

Translucent hands, her voice a wail,
Her grandmother's words a guiding trail:
"Your words will outlive; don't let them bind,
The life you lose, you'll never find."

With all her might, she threw the glass,
A storm of light, a shadowed mass.
Time returned, the silence broke,
Mira lay still, her spirit woke.

Her novel sat, its chapters near,
But the ending lacked, the purpose clear.
In imperfection, she found her truth,
A writer born in fleeting youth.

Months passed by, her heart renewed,
The joy of life, a simpler mood.
Her novel soared, a tale untamed,
Its haunting words the world acclaimed.

At a signing event, a child appeared,
Her curious gaze, her wonder cleared.
"How did you write such magic divine? "
Mira smiled, her voice a sign.

"I stopped chasing time, I chose to live,
And to the world, my soul I give."

But as the child turned, her bag ajar,
A glint of sand, a spark from afar.
An ornate glass, its shimmer gleamed,
The hourglass lived—a timeless dream.