My Poetry. The Silent Architect.

The clock ticks loud against the wall,
A measured rhythm, cold and slow,
Within the shadows of the hall,
Where heavy, silent minutes grow.

The tea grows tepid in the cup,
Beside a chair that holds no weight,
No voice to call or look me up,
No hand to rest upon the gate.

It is a phantom, soft and vast,
That follows where the daylight wanes,
A tether binding to the past,
Like frost upon the windowpanes.

Yet in this quiet, deep and wide,
I learn the map of my own soul;
With nowhere left for me to hide,
I gather fragments to be whole.

For even in the barren night,
Where solitude is sharp and deep,
I kindle up a small, steady light,
The only company I keep.