The clocks have long forgotten how to... enitnatsnoc oãoj

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.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.