Echoes in the Dust

Echoes in the Dust

We build with trembling hands—

towers of meaning,

walls of comfort,

houses made of mirrors and

half-spoken truths.

We name the stars

then curse them

when they don't align.

We pray with cracked voices

then steal bread

from the same god's table.

We fall in love

with broken people

who hold up broken mirrors

to our own hollow places,

and we call it fate.

We march—

sometimes for justice,

sometimes for pride,

sometimes just to be seen

in the blur of a thousand feet

moving toward something

or away from everything.

We destroy

for beauty.

We lie

for peace.

We hold hands

while loading the gun.

But we also sing—

not always in tune,

but with everything we’ve got.

We paint oceans on prison walls.

We plant trees we’ll never see bloom.

We write poems on napkins

and tuck them into strangers’ coat pockets.

We try.

And try again.

Even when we shouldn’t.

Even when we know better.

Especially when we know better.

We are chaos with a conscience,

light with a shadow,

soft beasts

dreaming of being more

than just hungry

and cold

and alone.

And maybe—

just maybe—

that’s enough.