Hiraeth

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

The disastrous fate of Nightingale was to sing in sorrow,

A verse written from blood dripping off the leaden arrow.

Bridge of faith was built, reaching the other side, you made a vow, 

But there's fire on the bridge, and I can't burn to reach you now. 

Should I leave or should I drown? 

Perhaps, it was a tragedy, that perfect shade of brown. 

A Scream so loud, but the water remained Serene, 

A voice unheard , a death unseen. 

Hundred chances, Eternalizing a destructive affection, 

A right decision walking the wrong direction. 

Icy December, you there keeping me warm, 

Now I'm wandering these streets alone Weathering the storm. 

The moon was the witness, she lost the rhythm of time for us, 

Perhaps, she realized, I was the only one mending the trust. 

What a catastrophe it was, your eyes meeting mine, 

Turns out, some wounds don't heal with time. 

The rain that once washed away the pain,

Now waters the love that forever lived in vain. 

Chasing your footprints, well aware of the fool's gold, 

The prophecy coming to life was written old. 

solicitous commitments, deceiving me to spill my truth, 

A conscious mind against a befooled heart fighting to conclude. 

The broken hourglass, the scattered sand, 

Brave was the rose that grew on that barren land. 

Haunted hallways with Obscure echoes, 

That ache by your name, that keeps coming and never goes. 

A silence that once held hope now remains Foresaken, 

But the words penned down stand still on the ground that's shaken. 

I yearn for a home that I never met, 

Perhaps, it was you, perhaps we termed it as regret.

Author's Note

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