The Quiet Closing of Days Past



The hands, worn and weathered by the weight of countless days,

grip the earth—familiar and foreign in the same breath.

A year passes, like dust upon the wind,

leaving behind echoes of war’s cruel laughter

and the quiet cry of boots that have walked too far.

Nights are stitched together with the thread of dread,

and sleep, a fleeting ghost, never lingers long enough

to soothe the ache of memory.

The scars, both seen and unseen,

are maps to places where giants fell

and where shadows still creep.

Yet there is a faint glow on the horizon—

a tender promise carried on the breath of dawn,

as if the sun, rising from the edge of the world,

whispers to my soul:

We have come for another day.

The weight of the past may never leave,

but neither will the fire that burns in the heart of the living.

We have stood before them, the giants,

watched them crumble beneath the weight of time,

their voices now only whispers

that scatter like ashes in the wind.

And though the road ahead is uncertain,

I walk it with open hands,

hopelessly seeking what cannot be found—

the quiet joy of a world that refuses to break,

a love that lingers, unspoken, beneath the surface of every breath.

For what is life but this eternal longing,

this dance between despair and hope?

A fragile thread spun across the heavens,

holding us aloft

for yet another day.