The hands of the clock are in motion, relentless in their progression. The second arm rotates and rotates, counting each fleeting moment. I watch as it ticks away, sixty seconds at a time, while the minute hand follows its own path, navigating the space between thirty minutes of silence. It’s the dead hour of the night, and once again, I am alone.
Burned into the stillness is the rhetoric of my own thoughts, a rhapsody of sorrow that only I can hear. The chair rocks gently, but it’s empty, as I sit forlorn, unaccompanied by anything but the ticking of the clock. It plays a reprise of my melancholy, echoing the emptiness that fills the room. My pen lies motionless on the table, the papers empty, the forgotten carols of joy lost to time, replaced by the cold reality of moments passed.
Another day is yet to come, but it promises only more censure, more remarks that sting, ending with a poem that will be just as lugubrious as the last. It’s a sad day, slipping quietly towards the end, a quarter to twelve, with no one beside me—no companion, no friend. I sit, playing with words, as they call me a poetess, a label that only highlights my solitude.
Feelings are my cloak, rhymes my only attire, as the clock continues its eternal ticking. Another day of life fades away, only to give way to another, filled with the same cycles of isolation. Words from a broken heart—people call them a diadem—but I know them as nothing more than the remnants of pain. And I am here, alone, carrying the weight of these feelings, with nothing but their momentum to keep me company.