The clock waits,
only for today’s death.
I tell myself,
perhaps a walk—
a breath beyond these walls.
Where do they go,
these restless souls?
The street has stolen them,
eyes vacant,
lost in motion.
Houses shrink into corners,
huddled in silence,
like a child robbed of their sweetest joy.
A boy laughs,
“Step on the scale…”
And I realize—
my thoughts weigh less than my bones.
I return home,
like a prisoner
who tires of the yard
and welcomes his cell once more.
My gaze finds the clock.
It whispers—
Today is dying.
Days bury themselves,
side by side, in their graveyard.
And some nights,
my mother wept for them.
But I—
I will not wait for death.
Let death wait for me.
No longer will I stare
at the hollow homes of the grave.
For once,
I will break free
and carry myself
to a house of my own making.
