#ahh last time i tag a poetry post with that o7

[elle-oh-ell3]

mo(u)rning 

as this beating heart of mine grows ever more antique, 

and the sun warms my back, 

still i mourn. 

i mourn for having to mould around people, instead of them moulding around me.

i mourn for little me, 

how her room is dark and her cries are loud. 

i draw her towards that beating, 

antique heart of mine,

and promise that she will one day too,

be warmed by the sun she can see seeping through the cracks in her door. 

the day her tears cease, 

is the day the dark corners of my mind, 

so resembling my childhood home, 

fade away. 

i don’t know if that day will ever come. 

maybe, 

instead, 

her laughter will simply overbalance her dim fill of my conscience, 

and the light she can see outside will bleed through.

shh. it’s okay. 

i mourn on this bright morning, 

but that beating, antique heart of mine grows ever more full.