The world hums outside my door,
Its voices brittle with hidden pain,
I hear the sun, the earth, and more,
Each sound, a story in my brain,
The shape of which I cannot regain.
My legs, they form a ghostly tide,
They carve the edges of my will,
I yearn for motion, yet I hide,
Ashamed of how I’m standing still,
The guilt becomes my quiet thrill.
I lie where dusk and daylight meet,
The clock will tick its dullest song,
My hand stays cold and incomplete,
With you I dread it would belong
And still I linger, still I long.
If the wind could pull me through,
I would beg forgiveness from you,
For not becoming what I knew.
