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Time is a maniacal concept. It rips you apart, piece by piece, if you stare at it for too long. You still do though. The illusion of the clock's movement consoles you as you add another layer of plaster over yourself. People make statues to remember, and at this point, you want to start with relearning your own name.
The ticking is louder than the screams to break free, and you keep bringing your ear closer to the clock because you don't know how to form words to say, "the wings are all burnt out".
You miss yourself more than you remember your existence but the world you remember can never exist and the self you miss has already started hearing the elegies, and thinks her name does sound pretty from their lips.
-Ish, learn how to spell your name. You have to put it on the tombstone.
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YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
