I spin without a thread, and build without a brick. I weave a sticky, silken trap to catch the passing quick. Though found on castle walls or in a dusty hall, I wear no crown, yet rule the corner where I fall. What am I?

I am born of a tear, yet I quench fire's thirst, I grow to my very limits, but I bend till I burst. I erase all your errors, though I wear myself at the slightest stress, And I jump up and down on the street with no mess.

When you do me to me I'll tell you what you want to know.

I breathe in ink yet never sigh, No pulse have I, no watchful eye, Yet all your hidden truths I spy. By candle’s glow or morning light, You feed me thoughts you dare not write For any ear or passing face, But trust to me in quiet space. I cradle whispers, sharp or sweet, Of fleeting days you wish to keep. A storm of words, a gentle stream, The weight of fact, the drift of dream. My skin is thin, my heart is wide, I wear your secrets deep inside. Each page a door, each line a key, To who you were and came to be. No judge am I, no voice to blame, I hold your truth without a name. Through joy and ache, through loss and fire, I echo thought, record desire. What am I, both still and deep, A vault of moments yours to keep?

I hold no clock, yet track it all, From winter’s hush to summer’s call. I never move, yet days slip through, In ordered lines I show to you. My face will change, but I remain, A steady guide through loss and gain. I mark your plans, your hopes, your due, And quietly reset for you. I carry numbers, neat and tight, Marching forward day and night. Weeks will gather, months will fade, In tidy boxes I have made. You hang me high or keep me near, Replace my skin each passing year. Though I grow old, I’m born anew, A cycle dressed in different hue. What am I, both full and bare, A grid of time laid out with care?