It’s not the grand pose
we think it is—
not the front page
not the polished march.

Dignity clings
quiet as moss
on a tired stone
its roots stubborn
but never loud.

Death waits
without applause
like a quiet gentleman
holding the door.
No roll-call
no bad timing—
only unseen
endings,
like it or not
arriving on time.

It’s the small things
that matter—
a hand brushing dust
from a collar
the spine
staying upright
even as the wind
does its best
to push us
down.