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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Crumbling is a failure in structure, form, and art. It's where time at last begins to play its part. What age makes weak is hard to see when growing old. Until hands lose their grip on what you can't hold. We do not lose our knowledge once and for all; it falls in fragments, grain-by-grain, in the pall. To crumble is to learn what entropy proves true: all things grow disordered—back to the dust they knew. The mind, like stone, holds its shape tight within, till doubt erodes the edges and cracks let light in. Age does not take away the crumbs in one broom sweep; the crumbles tumble slowly—each loss a memory we keep. Understanding builds like sandcastles, to fragile art; one crack, and doubt pours through the frail rampart. What crumbling shows along time's long winding path, is that nothing endures as keepsakes in the aftermath. Listen closely —you can hear the soft crumbs fall— a mantra of truth, that none of it was ours at all. So let the crumbling loosen what you once knew; opening space within, for something strange and new. Crumbling, murmuring, blundering through time, teaches the grace of slower, wiser rhyme; loosens our grip on what's failing anyway, to free up space for what's arriving today. What falls away makes room for come what may, making hay in the sunshine, all along the way as a crisp, crumble topping, made fresh today; if we don’t let the rain set in, and stay.
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