We are the epitome of stagnant; the stillness of isolation
The days pass by like wind that rings the chimes; soothing, blissful cessation
An ignorance one can say gives them personal solace
Wearing our fears and doubts like an adorning necklace
A chokehold by the unbelieving naysayers
To the nescience of time, the unfamiliarity to routine
We gather on beds and sing our prayers
To put an end to a curse that was deftly overseen
We are tied to homes that sometimes feel empty even when you're there. Day and day we watch the clock turn twelve to twelve, and suddenly it's dawn again when your mind was at dusk. We become a void— a blackhole, imploding in ourselves, a supernova of a star that yearned to be wished on. Yet we can't express that feeling, those trapped emotions. We are but a singular being stopped in motion. The four walls of this room might freeze me in place, but my mind wanders lightyears away.
I might be here, but I can escape this singularity
And no one in this house can stop me but me
//k.u.
YOU ARE READING
The Quarantine Book
Poetry"--the stillness of isolation, the blazing aloneness, the rich moments with loved ones, and the sole solitude of the person. The rumination of a bored writer, a reflection of the months, a reaction to the silence and loudness of life. It's a methodi...
