Apr 26
to wake with
a heavy heart,
sinking into
the bed sheets —
battling
the abyss,
the long days
yet to come
gathering dust
in the corners
of this room.
sunlight spills,
scattering ruins
dangling by threads;
storms rise,
rage,
and disappear.
shadows linger
in the folds
of the curtains,
the clock ticks —
a slow, tired drip
into the silence.
hope is a moth
beating itself
against the window,
a soft persistence
against an endless sky.
still, the body breathes,
still, the heart remembers
the shape of light.
