All cloaked in black,
It peeks from behind
In the dead of the night
In the silent car rides
In the laughter of their faces
In the endings of moments.

And it seeps & crawls slowly
In the pores of my bones
In the cracks of my soul
In the crevice of my thoughts
In the depth of my mind.

It consumes me whole.
Takes over me.
Madness.
Hysteria.
Despair.
Plight.

And it kills me bit by bit
Inciting a slow death
Estranging my ownself
Hating my reflection
A blunt self rejection.

The cycle repeats,
And all I could muster to utter
Is a wail short & painful,
Amalgamated in a stutter:
‘Oh hiraeth!
What have you done to me!’

~S.

Hireath: (n) a Welsh word which means 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 the past. A deep longing for the soul to come home.

[Featured image is a page from my art journal]

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