The clock stopped at twelve,
its silence echoing in the room
where the newspaper lies open
on the coffee table, untouched.
I speak to the wall
as if it could answer back
with news of the world
that never arrives, only lingers.
Hope is a whisper
heard between the lines,
knowing it won't come
yet finding peace in silence.
In the quiet of the kitchen, I wrote
A list of things never to be bought.
Outside, the clothesline swayed in the breeze,
Filling the air with whispers of what was lost…
Back then, I thought I knew it all,
But the pages stayed empty, like the cart.
Now I see, in that silence, my own flaw,
Courage lies in admitting a fragile heart.