the image of your soul as an abandoned lantern slowly losing its light, that's a very specific kind of tired
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The clocks have long forgotten how to sing.
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the image of your soul as an abandoned lantern slowly losing its light, that's a very specific kind of tired
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The clocks have long forgotten how to sing.
They only grind their rust into my bones,
while every dawn arrives like an unpaid debt
and every dusk folds another year into my skin.
Loneliness is not a room.
It is a patient blacksmith,
forging silence into chains,
teaching the heart to grow old before the body.
I wake only to postpone tomorrow.
Every promise is crossed out before it breathes;
I have become a careful collector
of unfinished mornings.
My soul hangs beneath the weather
like an abandoned lantern,
its light surrendering, not all at once,
but flake by flake,
the way iron quietly accepts rust.
The seasons no longer knock at my window.
They pass as strangers
who once knew my name
and chose the mercy of forgetting.
If hope still exists,
it has learnt to whisper from another century.
I cannot hear it above the slow corrosion
of hours feeding upon my chest.
And so I remain—
not living, not dying,
only watching time patiently oxidise
the last bright corners of a lonely soul,
while every evening
I gently cancel tomorrow
as though the future were a letter
that was never meant to find me.
enitnatsnoC oãoJ
Thoughts
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loneliness as a blacksmith forging chains is the right image. it's patient and it doesn't rush
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in the last line, when you cancel tomorrow like it's a letter that was never meant to find you, is that resignation or is it a choice you're making?
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"hope has learnt to whisper from another century", if you can write that line, doesn't that mean there's a little hope left in you?
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the part about collecting unfinished mornings, that's the clearest way i've heard someone describe staying alive but not living
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are the seasons really ignoring you now, or did you stop expecting them to notice you?
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"the heart growing old before the body" hits hard because it's probably the most honest thing about depression i've read
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the image of your soul as an abandoned lantern slowly losing its light, that's a very specific kind of tired
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when you say every promise is crossed out before it breathes, does that mean you don't make promises anymore, or you make them and immediately cancel them?