The tapping of polished work shoes on the marble floor and the tinkering of the broken TV: static.
The clock keeps ticking and ticking and ticking, does it ever stop? No, of course not.
Time is unforgiving and it always moves on, unlike us.
In a moment of sudden movements and the squeak of the crooked floorboards, I jump.
Time and time again, I jump.
Forever fear-riddled while anxiously creeping around every corner; afraid to make a single noise.
Yet this burden I've held since I was a child, this fear of growing old, then, finally, dead:
Gone and dead and lonely.
The clock stops ticking.
I need to change the batteries before I leave for good.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
