When you repeat a word
Over and over again,
It becomes a jumble of syllables.
Meaningless.
So here I am at four in the morning,
Chanting your name with tears on my pillow.
But all that happens is my eyes burn and my throat runs dry.
~October.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
